The Fall of Raccoon
by Jammer69er
Summary: It took just 9 days for Raccoon City to die in the wake of the devastating T-Virus outbreak. Experience the last days of Raccoon City's existence from the viewpoint of surviving R.P.D officer Dean Travers. Epilogue up and story complete.
1. Chapter 1

**The Fall of Raccoon**

Chapter 1: Prelude to The End

Raccoon City was once a small Mid-Western American town with a population somewhere in the region of 150,000, with an economy that was primarily centred on Umbrella Incorporate, one of the largest Pharmaceutical companies in the World, which developed cutting-edge medical technologies and various commercial products, such as Safsprin and Aquacure, its crowning public glory. At least 30 of the city is employed by Umbrella, and Umbrella itself have dedicated funding to a majority of the new building projects in Raccoon in the last few years, from the establishment of the new cable car system to improvements in the city's electrical system and numerous other projects ranging from welfare work to law enforcement. Raccoon City was developing at a good rate, and with Umbrella aiding its growth it seemed nothing could go wrong.

But in the Summer of 1998, all of that would come to a tragic end, and Umbrella had a large hand in Raccoon's downfall…

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**September 25th, 0906 hours, Raccoon City**

At the Raccoon Police Department, a young officer emerged from the back door of the station leading into the parking lot and approached one of the police cruisers parked near to the building, sweeping down the front of his white buttoned-up shirt, which made him uncomfortable, being freshly washed for that morning. He also wore the dark blue pants and black shoes which were standard-issue to all R.P.D officers, along with the flak vest underneath his shirt that was already making him perspire from the heat. Finally, his standard-issue Beretta M92F 9mm handgun was holstered at his waist, along with his nightstick, a pair of handcuffs, pepper spray, and extra magazines for his handgun.

He unlocked the car and got in; adjusting the rear mirror and chair, because the jerk who last used it hadn't bothered to set the seat position back to its initial place.

"Not fucking again," he muttered, looking at himself in the mirror. He had brown eyes and short, dark hair, currently styled up with wax so it was off his forehead and his skin was slightly tanned. His face was also freshly shaved, and the aftershave he'd put on still stung him slightly, partly because of the tiny cut on the right side of his chin, which was nearly fully healed by now.

His name was Dean Travers, 26 years of age, and one of the more recent members of the R.P.D, having first joined 2 years ago. He was about 5' 9'', with short, dark hair and green eyes, and of a fair build. He was born and raised in Virginia, where for years he worked on his parent's farm, then as soon as he was old enough he moved away to New York, where he drifted from menial job to menial job, wishing more and more for something more stimulating and exciting. Then two years ago his oldest friend, Ben Campbell, gave him a call and offered him a place in the police force in Raccoon City. For his whole life, Dean had never imagined himself being a police officer, but he still took the oppourtunity up, and he ended up passing his entrance exam the first time, which was a total suprise to him. He soon found out that most of the other officers were fairly decent people to hang out with, and he ended up settling into the whole job and new home with surprising ease.

"Hey! Hold up!" shouted a familiar voice, causing Dean to look up. It was Campbell, running out of the back door, holding what appeared to be a Remington shotgun in his hands. That was when Dean realised that it was the shotgun that was supposed to be in the car with him, but wasn't there. Campbell tore open the door and flung the weapon in, forcing Dean to quickly catch it before it hit him in the groin, then putting it in between the front seats, the stock bared to them with the barrel aimed into the floor.

Campbell pulled himself into the passenger side, slamming the door shut and panting for breath.

"Forget about me or something?" he asked, wiping his brow with a tissue.

"Relax, I was just warming the engine," replied Dean playfully, punching his partner in the arm.

"Yeah, whatever!" came the reply.

Ben Campbell was about the same age as Dean, but with short blond hair and blue eyes instead, along with a thin face and a cocky smile. He was the joker of the R.P.D, always pulling practical jokes on the other unsuspecting officers in the precinct. He was a relative veteran of the R.P.D, on the force for 5 years, and therefore held the responsibility of training up the new recruits. There had been a lot of new recruits coming in for the last couple of days, due to all of the attacks around the city and the unusually high death rate among a lot of the regular officers. But for now, he was Dean's patrol partner for the day, just like he had been for the last 6 months.

"We're off to Bar Jack today, Dean," said Ben as he pulled on his seatbelt. That place was a popular hangout for many of the officers on their break, as the owner, Jack, was a former officer himself and most of the current officers treated him like a sort of father figure.

"Another murder?" inquired Dean, as he turned the key and started the car up.

"That's right. Same MO as always, another bloody mess, said the guy who called it in," continued Ben as he picked up the in-car radio. "This is officer Campbell, me and Officer Travers are on our way to Bar Jack now, so that's covered."

"Copy that," came the reply. Dean drove the car out onto Central Street and took a left turn, heading downtown towards their location.

The whole city had been on edge recently, ever since last week, when the first reports of brutal murders filtered in from all over the city. Every victim was apparently eaten alive, but the murderer each time was someone completely different, sometimes a loved one, but most of the time it was a complete stranger who lived in a different place across the city from the murder scene. The attacks were escalating more and more, and even the police themselves weren't safe anymore, hence the new recruits. Even the SWAT teams were called in occasionally, and every time they came back one or two of their number was dead and gone.

He didn't know if it was a gut feeling or just plain superstition, but Dean guessed this was only a prelude to something much worse.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The cruiser pulled up outside Bar Jack, where a small crowd had gathered outside. The two officers got out and put on their peaked R.P.D caps, as Dean locked up the car and followed Ben down the stairs into the Bar.

"Come on people, don't bother sticking around," he said to the throng, holding his hands up. A few of the people looked at each other and moved away down the street, but most of them remained. He wasn't surprised. They were all terrified and on edge ever since the attacks. Sighing in slight defeat, he followed Ben into the Bar.

The Bar was a fairly small place, only about 20 square feet, with no tables, just several stools at the actual bar. The main bar itself was L-shaped, leading from next to the back door around to the cash register. A couple of pinball machines were also in place next to the front door. A few worried-looking patrons remained within the bar, obviously waiting around to be questioned by the cops. Ben was already talking to Jack, the manager and owner. Jack was a middle-aged guy about 43 years of age, his dark hair greying in areas, and wrinkles forming on his small face. He was about 5' 10'' and had slight hunch in his stature, part of a deliberating illness that forced him to leave the force. He was currently wearing a filthy apron over a white shirt and dark trousers, and he was going over his story with Ben.

"…soon as I heard the screaming, I grabbed for my gun and went out back to take a look, and that's when I saw it. She was dead on the ground already, and he was crouched over her," he continued, his gaze shifting down.

"What else happened, Jack?" asked Ben, flipping over a page on his notepad.

"He was eating her, I'm sure of it!" said Jack suddenly, a bit louder this time," the emotion in his voice coming through. "I shouted at him to stop, and he just came at me. I shot him in the knee, but that didn't slow him down. In the end I had to use all 6 rounds to put him down for good." His gaze shifted to a .38 revolver lying on the bar next to them. Most likely it was the sidearm Jack always kept under the bar in case of trouble, along with the ancient Mossberg shotgun he'd heard about, but had never seen.

"You realise we'll have to take this in for evidence, Jack?" said Ben, as he pulled on a latex glove. "You know, for procedure and stuff?"

"Yeah, yeah," replied Jack, sounding a little defeated as he carefully handed the weapon over to Ben, who held it between his thumb and forefinger before turning to Dean.

"The coroner's already looking at the bodies outside. Go have a look would you? I still need to talk with the other patrons."

"Yeah sure," replied Dean with a slight smirk, carefully brushing by the other two to get outside. The door opened up out into a tiny alleyway and down some stone steps into a small open area that was strewn with random junk and crates full of detritus, while another set of steps at the back lead into a small system of alleyways. One thing Dean quickly learned about Raccoon City was that the sheer number of alleyways between the buildings was mind-boggling.

But for now, a pair of corpses lay in the middle of the area on the cement. One of them formerly a blond female in jeans and a red shirt lying on her side, and with a pool of blood underneath her, and the larger corpse of a male lying a few feet away, dressed like a businessman, also with blood underneath him. As he stepped closer, he could see that the man's skin looked a deathly pale shade and he appeared to have a deep cut across his forehead. The smell that suddenly hit him made him recoil in shock.

"Ah, there you are," said a voice near him, and he span around to see a middle-aged gentleman wearing white scrubs and kneeling next to the female's body. He was going bald and wore thin-framed glasses, and looked like he could've been a college professor. "I'm Dr Myers," continued the old man, "I presume you're here to look at the bodies?"

"That's right," replied Dean, walking over to crouch next to the Dr. "So shall we start with our victim?"

"Sure, why not?" replied Myers, turning his attention to the frail and ruined body. "Cause of death appears to a single bite to the jugular, which tore open her jugular vein, causing her to bleed out in seconds. She didn't stand a chance."

"Bitten?" replied Dean, looking at the torn flesh on her throat, and could clearly make out the crimson flesh and muscle tissue. "As in, human bites?"

"That's right, replied the Dr, shifting his focus to the other body. "Our friend here, on the other hand has quite a few surprises up his sleeve."

Dean approached the body again, and that smell hit him again. Now he was standing over the guy, he could see that skin on his face appeared to be peeling away like it was rotten, and that the man's eyes were almost completely white, closer to a milky tone, like dead eyes. The man's mouth was open and his teeth were clearly visible, covered in flecks of blood, probably from his young victim, and they were also yellow and showing signs of rotting. The man's fingernails appeared to be longer and sharper than usual, almost like claws.

Dean took main notice of the numerous bullet wounds in the man's torso, the ruptures that lead from his stomach and finally into his left cheek, the area around each wound stained with crimson blood. Dean grimaced as he took it all in.

"Our man here apparently took all 6 shots from a .38 revolver before he finally died, apparently. Think he was under the influence of PCP?" asked the Dr. It was a well-known medical fact that those high on PCP couldn't detect pain until the drugs wore off, which could explain why the man took so much effort to kill.

"A guy on PCP can't take half a dozen shots to the body, Doc," replied Dean with a smirk as he crouched down and looked closely at a small patch of congealed blood.

"Blood usually congeals when a person dies," continued Dr Myers, scraping some of the crimson liquid from the cement into a small glass tube for testing back at the lab. "Except that this blood came from one of the initial wounds."

"So you're saying this man was already dead before Jack shot him in the head?" asked Dean, standing up.

"I'm not sure what to make of all this," replied Myers, standing up also. "This man bears all the hallmarks of a dead man. When you're dead, you're skin rots away and your nails continue to grow, and this man bears both of these properties. He also stinks like he's been lying in the sun for weeks!" he finished, gagging and covering his face with a handkerchief.

The sound of a door opening behind them made them turn just as Ben walked up, carrying Jack's .38 revolver in a small plastic evidence bag.

"So what's the story?" he asked. Dean explained all of the doctor's musings in as short a period as he could, and finishing by handing him the tube with the congealed blood in it.

"So supposedly-dead people are walking round killing folks?" he asked, tucking the tube into one of his shirt pockets. "What is this, some kind of zombie movie?" He said that last part with a chuckle, but Dr Myers seemed a little reluctant to join in on the humour. After a somewhat awkward silence, Dean cleared his throat and turned to the Doctor.

"Thanks for the help doctor, get the bodies back to the morgue and we'll take it from here."

"As you wish," replied the old man, walking away to fetch his assistant and a gurney to move the body. At the same time, Ben grabbed for his radio and spoke into it.

"Control, we've got a pair of bodies coming in from Bar Jack, and we shall continue our patrol for the day, out."

"Copy that," came the reply. Ben hooked his radio back onto his utility belt and turned back to Dean. "Come on, patrol's calling!" he said, punching him in the arm playfully.

"Yeah, I'm coming!" replied Dean as he walked after Ben. He glanced back momentarily at the pair of bodies lying on the concrete, and somehow told himself that these wouldn't be the last bodies he'd have seen by the end of the week.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**2013 hours**

By now, Dean's day shift was over and he'd spent the last few hours at home, giving it a much deserved tidy up. He hated to admit it, but he was something of a litterbug. He only cleaned his apartment once a month at the most, and the thick layer of dust and grime was sticking out like a sore thumb as he passed by with a duster cloth and vacuum cleaner. It was a modest apartment, with a reasonable rent and a nice view of the East side of the city, including over the Circular River and the nearby College, and a scenic view of the Arklay Mountains outside the city limits. Right now he sprayed some glass cleaner onto the TV screen and wiped it clean, as the evening news was beginning to wind down.

Suddenly, the message, 'Urgent News Story!' flashed across the TV screen, and Dean took notice of it. He sat himself down on his couch, dropping his cleaning stuff onto the spot next to him as he leaned a little closer to the screen so he could take it all in. A stern-looking female reporter appeared on screen.

"In spite of the numerous brutal murders occurring in the Raccoon Area, earlier today, R.P.D chief Brian Irons issued a public statement to the general public with a focus on public safety during this turbulent period." The camera switched to the courtyard outside the R.P.D, and to a wooden podium with a rather podgy figure stood behind it, wearing an official police uniform that looked too small for him. He had a podgy face and thick moustache, and numerous camera flashes were threatening to engulf him. He was the Chief of Police, Brian Irons.

Dean knew from the first time he met the chief that he was an unpleasant individual. He had a rather morbid fascination with works of 'dubious' art, such as naked women being burned at the stake, that sort of stuff. The chief was leering at one such piece when he first met him in the Briefing Room at the precinct, and that look on his ugly face made Dean shiver. Even more disheartening was the Chief's manner: he looked down at all the new recruits like they were trash, and at one point Dean saw the chief go berserk at his own secretary who accidentally nudged one of the statues on the second floor, to the point where he was screaming at the top of his lungs. That lunch break, every officer was talking about it, you could have heard the chief from down in the basement, they said. It was general consensus that most of the senior officers would've been a better choice than Irons was for the position of chief.

"People of Raccoon City," began the chief, raising his arms like a preacher addressing his flock. Dean rolled his eyes. "I know you are all on edge due to the increasing number of attacks within the city, but I assure you, the officers of the Raccoon Police Department and SWAT operatives are working around the clock to make sure that you sleep safe in your beds at night." The chief took a deep breath and wiped his brow free of sweat before continuing.

"But for the sake of your own personal safety, I urge you all to remain in your homes at night, and not to linger in dark areas of the city. We are being attacked from within, and we shall not allow our foe to best us. That is all, thank you. Once more I urge you to remain strong during this turbulent time, thank you!" And with that, the chief began to get down from his podium as a chorus of voices all put forward their questions to the chief, who didn't want to answer any of them.

Dean flicked off the set and sat in silence for a bit, letting it all sink in. This week alone he'd seen at least half a dozen bodies around Raccoon City, all of them killed in a similar manner, and these attacks were increasing in number and brutality. The people were scarred to go out at night, and the city was closer and closer to resembling a ghost town by the hour. He had a feeling of dread that the future was looking bleak indeed for the city.

He didn't realise that the city was already doomed.

**A/N: So the first couple of chapters are just here to set the scene for the bloodshed to come, so please R + R if you want to. **


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Desk Duty

**September 26th, 1000 hours**

Dean had been sat at his desk in the East Office for nearly an hour now, processing endless paperwork, along with numerous other police officers he didn't know too well to put names to. No-one ever told him being a Police Officer involved so much damned paperwork, he thought to himself. Incident reports and parking tickets: lots of parking tickets. Some rude people who didn't know how to park in this damned city…

"Want anything?" asked a voice next to him. He glanced up to look at Ben, who stood there with some change jangling in his hand. He was probably off to the coffee machine again. Guess he really loved his coffee, thought Dean…

"Sorry, I was miles away," he groaned, rubbing his eyes.

"Late night?" inquired Ben, raising an eyebrow.

"Could say that," replied Dean slowly, rubbing his eyes. He was beginning to wish he hadn't stayed up till 11:30 PM, watching cheesy old zombie movies and getting stuffed on nachos as a result of having nothing better to do. "And no, I'm fine for coffee thanks."

"All right," replied Ben as he stalked away through the set of blue double doors. Dean moaned and went back to his pile of paperwork. He'd be glad to get out of this place when he was finished it all. One thing he didn't like was being stuck inside all day; he preferred to be out in the fresh air. Back when he lived on his parent's farm in Virginia, he always used to go for long walks through the countryside every day, and every time he was able to appreciate the world around him a little more. Now that he'd given that simple life up for a life and a job in the city, he was getting nostalgic of those days. Maybe he'd be able to take a little holiday for a week or so sometime soon...

A whistling tune broke his train of thought, making him glance up as an officer with unkempt brown hair walked by and sat down at another desk only a few feet away from Dean. He was wearing a different version of the R.P.D uniform, consisting of a flak-vest with the R.P.D initials on them sewn into a black shirt, along with black combat trousers and combat boots, and complete with gloves. He had a fair amount of stubble on his chin and seemed to be sorting through the stuff on his desk. Dean also noticed the Colt .45 pistol holstered at the man's waist, a weapon which was much more powerful than Dean's 9mm, and he wondered if the other officer was even allowed to carry that gun in the field.

The other man suddenly scowled and hit his fist against the desk suddenly.

"Bad day?" asked Dean, putting down his pen.

"Could say that," replied the other cop, sitting down at his desk and slouching into a comfortable position. "Can't find that damned transfer sheet…"

"You leaving or something?" asked Dean again, noticing the name on the other man's desk reading, 'Kevin Ryman'. "You been here long then, or just fancied a change of scenery?"

"No, I'm not leaving, and I have been here for a while now, or as long as can be expected. I'm looking for a transfer to S.T.A.R.S." Finally, he found what he was looking for and pulled it out into the light. "Yes! You beauty," he said aloud, holding the paper protectively in front of him like his life depended upon it.

"S.T.A.R.S?" asked Dean with something of a scoff. "Shouldn't you have really picked a more favourable unit?" he scoffed. Kevin just gave him a deadly glare.

The S.T.A.R.S team were Raccoon City's anti-terrorism unit, established back in 1996 as a means to combat domestic terrorism and other international threats. They soon proved to be one of the more elite law-keeping units within the Raccoon area. Until the incident in July. When the reports of brutal cannibalistic murders in the Arklay Mountains filtered into the City, the S.T.A.R.S were sent in to investigate the area. Of the 12 members who went in, only 5 of them returned. And all of them had a hell of a story to tell. They were blabbering about flesh-eating zombies and other monsters that had murdered their team mates for food, and that Umbrella itself were behind the development of these creatures in secret bio-weapon research. They even claimed that their captain, Albert Wesker was in on the whole thing as an ally with Umbrella, but he had been killed too that night, and it wasn't followed up.

But the stories were so far-fetched that the Chief disbanded the S.T.A.R.S officially and they became the laughing stock of the station, and their claims were never followed up by any other of the senior members of the R.P.D or even Internal Affairs. As a result the majority of the jokes told amongst the other officers centered on the unfortunate S.T.A.R.S members and their experiences. Half of the precinct was convinced that the team were on drugs and other illegal substances. It got to the point where S.T.A.R.S marksman Chris Redfield got into a fight with Hugo Elran of the Boys Crime Department and knocked him out with a single punch as a result.

Dean played along with these jokes for the most part, and even came up with a few of his own. But when he saw some of the S.T.A.R.S members around the precinct, and he saw the vacant look in their eyes, something told him that they weren't making up what happened that night. But still, stuff like that doesn't exist, does it? It was like they'd described a child's worst nightmares.

"I've always wanted to join the S.T.A.R.S!" snapped Kevin, looking a little hurt. "Besides they need the new recruits right? So I thought why not? But it hasn't been easy…"

"Easy, I was just pulling your leg," laughed Dean with a playful punch to the other man's shoulder. "So is it that hard to get into the S.T.A.R.S?" He wasn't particularly bothered in the slightest about how you got to be a S.T.A.R.S team member, he just wanted to make a bit of conversation with this new person on the force he could talk to, rather than just Ben and a couple of others they were always hanging with in their own little clique.

"Well the selection doesn't specifically look for those with particular experience in law enforcement, just those with certain skills and abilities, like having knowledge of chemistry or mechanics for specific roles. But they said I failed my last initiation exam because I'm too rash, apparently," continued Kevin, putting the paper into his pocket. "I like to think I'm a pretty likeable guy, but really, is personality really vital for something like this?"

Dean just shook his head a little in response. "I'm not an expert, but your personality might affect your judgement in a combat situation, or something like that," he explained, putting his pen down and getting to his feet, giving a slight stretch of his muscles as he did so. "But like I said, I'm not an expert. Time for a bit of target practice I think."

He reached for his utility belt with his sidearm holstered in it, and clipped it on, making sure it was in a comfortable enough position. He looked over to Kevin as he finished putting his gear back on. "What about you?"

"I need to finish something important off, and then I have to get back on patrol," he explained, getting up from his desk. "But I'm going to Jack's Bar for a few drinks later on, if you fancy it?"

"No thanks," replied Dean, "Not really a drinker to be honest. Maybe some other time though?"

"Of course," laughed the other officer, moving to the door to leave. "Well, see ya around," he said, leaving through the blue double-doors, with a slight wave towards Dean's direction.

"See you around," said Dean to himself. He waited another minute or so, before heading for the firing range, located outside the rear of the main building.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dean held his breath as he fired off the last of his magazine and the pistol slide locked back as he laid his weapon down and hit the switch to bring the paper target back to him. It came to a stop just a couple of feet in front of him, and he could see the perforations in the target's torso and stomach regions, and a couple in the head. He sighed, realizing that he still had to beat his previous record.

He slapped a new magazine into the weapon and pulled the slide back, before replacing the target with a fresh one and sending it back to 30 feet, which was as far as he'd expect to fire in this job. For all the time on this job, he'd only drawn his weapon twice, first for when he confronted some small-time thugs holding a family hostage, and he dropped one of the perps with a shot to the shoulder when they left the premises to confront the police. The second time he was called out to confront a pair of unstable drug dealers who were hanging out behind an old warehouse, and when one of them turned nasty and drew a flick-blade in an attempt to stab Ben, Dean was quicker and had no option but to take the man down with 3 shots to the stomach. The guy was high on something and wouldn't listen to reason, he kept telling himself, even though some group was protesting ;police brutality' outside the precinct for weeks afterwards, forcing him to leave him through the back door at the end of his shift as a result.

In between those incidents, Dean spent a lot of time down at the firing range, honing his aim, and he thought himself he was getting pretty good at it. He could target specific limbs for a safe takedown if he wished, or go for the head for an instant kill if the situation demanded. But his aim wasn't perfect, as at ranges over 30 feet he tended to miss a lot of his shots. But, as Ben always told him, 'practice makes perfect.'

He pulled his earphones back on as the target came to a stop and he took aim towards the head. Taking his time, he breathed deep and held his hands still as he squeezed off a round. The paper quivered as it was struck, and on closer inspection, noticed that he'd hit it right between the eyes. He smiled to himself and was about to take aim again when the door behind him suddenly banged open.

Spinning round in shock, he was faced by Ben and another officer, Eric Sands, both of whom had severe looks on their faces. Eric in particular looked as though he'd been in a fight, with a few splotches of blood on his shirt and forehead.

"Dean, where the hell have you been?" asked Ben, raising his voice.

"Down here," replied Dean casually, laying his headphones on the side. "Something wrong?"

"Yeah, something's wrong!" cried Eric, his voice coming close to cracking under some kind of immense pressure and stress. "The whole fucking town's in chaos!"

"What?"

"Some guy stormed the pitch at the Raccoon Sharks game a few hours ago, and a load of people got injured," explained Ben. "But since then violence has erupted all over the place! We've got reports of people mauling each other and shit! The fire-fighters and paramedics are under attack and everything! The mayor's going to declare a state of emergency!"

The description of people mauling each other made Dean's blood run cold. The dead guy they found behind J's Bar had take to mauling his victim to death with his bare teeth, and now such reports were cropping up all over the city. What the hell was going on exactly?

"Shit…"

"You said it," continued Eric. "You're needed now! There's an incident over at a grocery shop near the Zoo, there's a whole group of people attacking it!"

"Come on Travers!" cried Ben, pushing him towards the door, "Time to earn your keep!" With a sigh of defeat, Dean pulled off his headphones and tossed them down onto one of the stalls, and then followed his fellow officers out the door and back towards the main hall.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The main hall was in utter chaos. Panicked officers hurried back and forth like excited rodents, while several civilians were also packed into the spacious area, many of them coated in blood and crying their heads off. The noise was immense as well, forcing Dean to nearly cover his ears with all of the shouting, crying and pained screaming. Through it all, he could make out Sergeant Marvin Brangh trying his hardest to calm the situation. Marvin was a well-respected member of the force, and he was known for being able to calm most hairy situations with a little discussion, but even his being there was doing little to alleiviate the chaos in the hall.

"For everyone's sake, would you please calm down?" he asked a middle-aged man standing before him.

"Calm down?" asked the man, sounding rather ticked off, "Calm down?! After what those fucking freaks did to my friend?! They practically turned him into an appetiser!" This looked like it would ugly pretty quickly. Dean's hand instinctivly reached down for his nightstick at his waist, just in case...

"I won't ask again sir," replied Marvin, in a rather more threatening tone this time. "There are only so many of us in the whole city." For a moment, it looked like the man was going to pull a knife or something and lunge at the sergeant, but he seemed to deflate in defeat, before making his way over to a set of benches to sit down on, buring his face in his hands and sobbing quietly. Marvin then noticed Dean and Ben standing there and made his way over to them.

"All hands needed on deck," he told them, "this whole city's going to hell in a hand basket, and most of our units are tied up all over the place. Looks like the military's not so keen on helping us either."

"Why not?" asked Ben.

"Seems they're busy barricading all the roads in and out of town." That statement made both men fall deadly silent.

"Barricade the roads?" asked Dean, unable to believe what they were being told. "What the hell for? It's not like there's a risk of something spreading is there?" Marvin sighed and bowed his head slightly.

"Whatever the case may be, we're on our own for this one," he explained slowly. Ben swore loud enough for half the hall to notice it, and glanced over in his direction. "But we're needed all the same. Get yourself over to Byron's Groceries near the Zoo, the shop owner says he's under attack from crazed bastards, or something like that."

"Come on Dean, looks like we're needed," said Ben, as he practically dragged his partner towards the exit. Dean followed after Ben, looking back over the assembled figures in the hall. This looked really bad, and something else told him that it was only going to get much worse before the end of the bloodshed, and that he'd never see most of these people in the hall alive again.

**A/N: Another scene-setting chapter for you here, but don't worry, they'll be some zombie-splattering action soon, so R+R until then please. **


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Total Chaos

**September 26th 1412 hours**

The police cruiser tore through the streets at break-neck speed, its sirens wailing as Dean finished off checking his Beretta and holstered it. The radio was going crazy with shouts of other officers demanding backup, new incidents piling in, and requests for fire and ambulance services. The car tore past a burning car wreck, and then past a parked ambulance where the paramedics hurried to lift a loaded gurney into the back, where a young man with a huge amount of blood covering his chest and shoulder lay, screaming his lungs out.

"Damn," muttered Ben, as he suddenly wrenched the wheel to power slide around a sharp bend, nearly launching Dean head-first into the passenger side window. Continuing on, they passed by a fire engine, where a quartet of fire fighters were desperately trying to control a huge blaze that was beginning to consume an apartment complex, as another small group were trying to control a group of residents who gazed up at the building with tearful eyes, desperatly clutching to whatever they could save before they were forced to flee from their homes.

"What the fuck happened for things to go downhill so fast?" asked Dean to no-one in particular, when he suddenly spotted another police cruiser parked just outside an alleyway entrance, its door opened and abandoned.

"Look there!" shouted Dean, pointing out the sight to Ben, who quickly slammed the brakes on and came to a halt on the opposite side of the street from the abandoned cruiser. They checked out the car for several seconds, before Ben glanced at Dean and spoke, his voice low and hushed.

"We've been told not to take any chances here. These rioters don't respond to any reason or intimidation. We suspect they're on narcotics or something similar." He gripped the stock of the Remington shotgun next to him and drew it out, checking that it was fully loaded. "So don't take any chances, all right?"

Dean nodded slowly to show he understood, as they both stepped out the vehicle, and approached the other car carefully, Ben going left, while Dean went right, towards the passenger side. He saw that the car was abandoned, but he could make out a splotch of blood on the seat cover.

"Blood," he said aloud, as Ben came up on the driver's side door and saw what Dean was pointing out.

"Crap," he muttered, "far as we know, the officers from this car are dead." He looked about a little more and saw that the shotgun rack in the front was empty, so someone had at least had the presence of mind to take the heavy weapon. He glanced up into the entrance to a darkened alleyway, and had a hunch.

"Dean, check that alley out would ya? I'll have a look around here a bit longer."

Dean looked into the alleyway, and felt a feeling of dread rising in his gut. He'd come to get used to Raccoon's back alleys, but still at a time like this he wouldn't want to go into one by himself, especially considering Ben had the bigger gun at the moment. Then again, he was an officer of the law, and it was his duty to protect the innocent and the helpless at a time like this. He had to swallow his fear and just get on with it.

"Yeah sure," he replied, a hint of fear on his voice, as he raised the weapon to eye level and advanced into the alleyway. Left behind, Ben turned and stooped down to examine a load of shattered glass lying at his feet. Most of the shards were covered in blood, as if someone had punched out the window of the cruiser itself, which would have either required a hell of a lot of strength, or someone who didn't mind breaking every bone in their hand.

A sudden shuffling of feet from somewhere in front of him made Ben pause and hold his breath. The shuffling continued, followed by a low, torturous moan that sent shivers down Ben's spine. He quickly glanced up and gasped in horror.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dean made his way down the alleyway, picking his way around stacked crates and trashcans, and nearly gagging at the smell. Looked like someone had to empty their bins out in a hurry, but then again, there were more important things to worry about at the moment, like crazed rioters roaming the streets and the emergancy services being caught up in it all. Dean always thought that the police and the fire service were regarded as heroes by many, but after starting service in Raccoon he quickly began to realise it wasn't all like that. He recalled one incident where a fire was started in an isolated dead-end street purely to lure the fire fighters in before they were attacked by a gang of young hoodlums who were annoyed at having a load of their fires put out for the last few weeks. The fire fighters were able to get out of there, but one of them was struck over the head with a chunk of concrete and died instantly. The story made the front page, and within days the gang responsible were rounded up, mainly by up-standing citizens and off-duty or retired cops. Just went to show how much respect the people had for their rescue services...

The sound of flesh being torn from bone and of chewing snapped his attention back, and he stopped as he saw a body lying just ahead of him, with a few empty 9mm casings surrounding it, and he dashed up to quickly. The body was of a young male, dressed in dirty jeans and a white shirt, with a huge amount of blood pouring from a wound in his neck. His eyes were milky in colour, and his flesh was beginning to peel away from the bone in strips, suggesting that he'd been dead for weeks. The similarity with the dead man from Bar Jack was unnerving…

The man was dead with numerous bullet wounds in his torso and neck, but Dean could still hear the chewing sounds from nearby, from around the nearby corner. With his weapon raised, he stepped around the corner…

And nearly recoiled in disgust.

3 figures, 2 men and a female, were crouched over a prone body, and they were…eating the corpse, tearing chunks of flesh away in a messy fashion, blood spattering all over the grisly scene. He raised his free hand to cover his mouth, as the stench of blood and rotting flesh reached his nostrils and made him want to hurl. He could tell that the body belonged to a police officer, as he could make out the white shirt that was issued to R.P.D officers, and a standard-issue Beretta lying close by, devoid of ammunition and surrounded by shell casings. Propped up against a dumpster was another body, of a man dressed in a sewage worker's uniform, his head partially blown away by a point-blank shot. It looked like the officer was attacked and cornered by his attackers in this alley, not the wisest place to retreat into.

Dean aimed his weapon at the closest figure, its back to him. "R.P.D! Face me and put your hands above your head, all of you!" he shouted, just like he'd been taught to at the academy.

Upon hearing his voice, the figures began to slowly rise up, presumably going to give up without a fight, but when the first male, dressed in a blood-stained denim jacket and jeans, turned to him, he seriously reconsidered his decision to shout at them to freeze. His stomach wanted to do a double somersault.

The man's flesh was pale and beginning to peel away, and his eyes were a milky white, just like the corpses he'd been seeing all week. His expression was totally vacant, and as he opened his mouth a tortured moan escaped. The other two attackers were no better, being in pretty much the same state, except the female's left arm was nearly torn off at the shoulder and was hanging off by a few bloody strips of flesh, so it hung limply by her side, whereas the second male, slightly shorter than the first and wearing an Iron Maiden T-Shirt, actually had some of his guts hanging out from a rupture in his stomach, but he seemed unaware of this and shuffled towards Dean, dragging his feet along as if the limbs had gone numb.

Dean raised his Beretta and settled his sights on the first male, who was now within 12 feet, his arms outstretch as if attempting to make a grab for him.

"I say again, R.P.D! Freeze and put your hands above your head! I won't warn you again!" he shouted, backing up slightly, with no idea there was a wall coming up behind him. The figures made no attempt to comply as the first one suddenly raised one of his arms up and bought it down, slashing at Dean with unnaturally-sharp fingernails. Dean hopped back in time, and glared at the figure as it recovered from the attack.

"Suit yourself," replied Dean.

He fired twice, blowing a pair of holes through the man's torso, but all that happened was that he staggered backwards a couple of paces, before he advanced towards Dean again. "What the hell?" stuttered Dean, firing again and again. The man continued advancing, even when Dean shot him right in the heart, the blood pouring from the numerous wounds in his body. Dean was rapidly emptying his current magazine, and this man kept advancing, almost as if he were a mobile brick wall. Finally, a shot to the man's neck had the desired effect, and he crumpled to the ground, his moans finally dying away.

The one-armed woman suddenly lunged at Dean, exposing a set of yellowed teeth that were like razor blades to Dean's eyes. He fired into her shoulder, and she fell back, the whole limb suddenly coming away from her shoulder in a spray of crimson. She didn't even glance at the injury as she advanced again, the second man in the Iron Maiden shirt close on her heels, all the while as blood poured from the gaping wound.

_Christ…_

He fired twice more, and the shots caused her to fall backwards, her skull cracking open on contact with the concrete. As the blood pooled beneath her head, she didn't get up again. The last man lunged at the officer much like the others before him, and was struck at point blank range by Dean's last 3 shots. His body quivered as he was hit, but he didn't fall as he suddenly grabbed onto Dean's shoulders and pulled himself close to his neck in as his mouth opened exposing his rotten teeth. Dean felt the putrid breath wash over his neck as the man was obviously trying to drag him in to bite into his jugular vein. Having his throat torn out by a crazed civilian didn't suit Dean well, so he grabbed onto the man's lapels in an effort to force him away, but the other man seemed to be a lot stronger, despite the fact he was at least a few inches shorter than Dean and not as well built.

As he struggled madly to break free, Dean finally got enough room to ram his Beretta into the attacker's forehead, spraying blood and forcing him to stagger backwards, relinquishing his grip on Dean's shoulders. Dean didn't let up as he struck the man again in the side of the head with his sidearm, cracking his head open with a stronger blow. He made no sound as he fell onto his back with a sick snap and lay still.

Dean leaned back against a wall as he reloaded his Beretta and glared at the new bodies before him. He'd just had to defend himself from a group of crazed civilians who'd reeked of death and one of them had tried to tear his throat out with its teeth, and each of them seemed to take a hell of a lot of punishment to go down. This was just like everything else he'd been hearing about in the last week, as the attacks around the city were escalating in intensity and violence. And he was caught in the middle of it all. He looked down at the dead officer before him and felt his stomach contract.

Footsteps caught his attention, and he aimed towards the alleyway entrance as Ben suddenly ran into view, holding his shotgun and with a few flecks of recent blood splattered across his shirt front. He looked as shocked as Dean did.

"What the hell happened here?" he gasped, noticing the bloody corpses in the area, especially the ruined body of the police officer. He gagged and turned away, vomiting into the nearest available corner.

"These people attacked me," explained Dean. "They wouldn't listen to my warnings, so I had no choice but to neutralise them…damned bastards took a lot of punishment too. "

"Well they did a number on our colleague here," noted Ben, pointing out the dead officer. The man's torso had been so badly mauled he couldn't tell who it was before hand. His ribs were on display, and the whole left side of his face had been torn away, exposing the bone beneath. The huge pool of blood beneath the body further indicated the sickening violence of the scene, which they thankfully missed to witness. "What about you?" continued Dean, turning to Ben once more.

"One of our own attacked me," he breathed. "But he was like these people and he wouldn't listen to me, so I had no choice but to kill him as well."

"Shit!" exclaimed Dean, holstering his handgun. "What do you mean like them?"

"Rotting skin, shambling walk, stinks to high heaven?" explained Ben, inserting a spare shell into his shotgun.

"Oh," replied Dean. "I wouldn't try reasoning with them, they don't seem to take any notice," he explained, referring to when he shouted at the first group to freeze and they still approached him to attack.

"I know," panted Ben, grabbing for his radio. "All units, this is officer Campbell. The streets are dangerous, I repeat, the streets are dangerous! Issue a directive to all citizens to remain in their homes and to barricade all the entrances until aid arrives! Our enemy doesn't listen to reason, so shoot on sight!"

He got a load of mumbled response and static back, before a few voices replied back with affirmatives.

"Come on, we have to get going too," he said to Dean, who nodded in agreement before they made their way back to their cruiser. Behind them Dean thought he heard someone moaning and sitting up, but he passed it off as hearing things. As they got back to the cruiser, Dean saw the body of another police officer lying on the sidewalk next to their viechle, his torso ruptured by a point-blank shotgun blast and congealed blood pooling beneath him. His face was set in a vacant expression and his eyes had that familiar milky tint to them. Dean grimaced as he climbed back into the car and pulled his seatbelt on. They still had to get to that grocerers store that was under siege apparently.

As Ben stamped his foot to the floor and screeched off, Dean noticed something moving in his rear-view mirror and looked over his shoulder. He could see even more figures, at least a dozen, emerging from the dark alleys, all of them staggering around as if drunk and looking dishevilled. One of them was dressed as a police officer, his ribs exposed and part of his face eaten away. There was no way that could've been the same dead officer he'd just come across, could it? He said nothing to Ben as he turned back around.

He had a very bad feeling about this day.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They screeched to a halt across the street from _Byron's Groceries_, and they could make out at least seven figures bashing on the door and windows with their bare hands, all of them moaning loudly. They were all dressed in civilian clothes, and there was at least one kid among them, barely 12 years old. Christ, even the children were caught up in all this? All around them was scattered fruit from the front store displays and empty grocery bags, probably left behind by fleeing customers when the attack started. The two officers looked at one another, and Dean thought he could make out a look of fear etched on Ben's face, but he quickly dismissed it. Ben was known for keeping his head in these kinds of situations.

"Let's go," said Ben grimly, getting out and cocking his shotgun. Dean followed close behind him, and they began to jog towards the crowd, stopping within 15 feet of them. They still hadn't noticed the officers, so Dean fired off a warning shot into the back of the closest one's head. It convulsed slightly, and then fell back onto the ground without making a sound. At that moment, the others suddenly turned and came at the officers, their arms outstretched in front of them.

"Want some?" asked Ben mockingly, as he fired his shotgun. One attacker was nearly torn if half by the blast and thrown backwards, while another had its head torn off in a spray of visceral matter. It splattered onto the other figures, but they didn't even flinch. Dean fired shortly after Ben's opening shot, sending 3 rounds into the crowd. He clipped the leading figure, a man in a dirty vest and green trousers, in the temple, flooring him immediately, and staggered another with a couple of body shots. He followed up with another headshot to the staggered figure, dropping that one too. A tall man in a shirt and tie lunged at him next, but he was felled with a 5 shots in rapid succession into his chest, causing him to fall at Dean's feet.

Ben fired into the stomach of a female, throwing her backwards, where she cracked her skull on the concrete when she landed. He cocked the shotgun again and fired at the last figure, the young boy, clad in shorts and a stripy t-shirt. He was moving much faster than the others, his arms outstretched and his face vacant. He pulled the trigger, obliterating the child's head and upper torso in an explosion of blood and bone. A good deal of it splattered onto Dean's shirt, who turned in response and backed away in horror as he saw what remained of the poor kid's remains.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed, nearly gagging in disgust. "He was just a damned kid!" Ben looked at his colleague solemnly as he reloaded the shotgun, and looked over the corpses on the ground before them. He said nothing as he moved over to the store front, while Dean stayed next to the child's body, coughing in disgust. "He was just a kid," he said again, nearly choking on the bile in the back of his throat. Looking through the barred door, Ben could make out a dead body lying inside the store, along with scattered goods and other knick-knacks, probably from some sort of struggle. He rapped loudly on the door.

"R.P.D! Open up, its safe outside now!"

There was a painfully long silence, before a gaunt-looking elderly man appeared in a doorway at the back of the store, clutching a .38 revolver and looking rather terrified. He was wearing a grey sweater and black slacks, along with a white apron, and was rapidly going bald. Ben guessed he was in his mid 50's and was the owner of the shop. The man carefully approached the door and unlocked it, letting Ben open it slowly.

"You OK sir?" asked Ben, aiming his shotgun down to the ground. Dean stopped coughing long enough to notice the now opened door and walked over to provide aid if needed.

"I'm still in one piece," replied the old man gruffly. "You took long enough to get here!"

"We ran into a little snag on the way," explained Dean, his face unnaturally pale from shock and disgust. He still couldn't get that image of the people tearing into the dead officer like he was a side of meat. "You know, those people who refuse to die?"

"One of them tried to kill my favorite customer!" said the old man in a loud manner, brandishing his revolver. "I had to take him with this before he killed anyone else, but then everyone who was normal ran out and more of those freaks turned up outside. I was able to lock the door and get the bars down, then you guys showed up."

"You're not hurt are you, sir?" asked Ben, looking for any signs of injury on the man.

"No, I'm fine, they didn't get anywhere near me, luckily. Their nails are wickedly sharp as well, aren't they?" Dean nodded in agreement. He'd also say that their teeth were pretty sharp as well. Far as he knew, no amount of illegal 'narcotics' could do that to a person. He grabbed for his radio and patched through to control.

"Control, the situation over here is fixed, we have a civilian with us, what's the protocol with civilians in this situation?"

"Roger that, officer Travers. News from City Hall, a State of Emergency has been announced, repeat, a State of Emergency has been announced." Dean cursed and bought the radio away from his face as he let the info sink in. This was much worse than he thought if a state of emergency had been declared, who knew how many of those rotten people were wandering the streets? Ben glanced up to look at his partner, his face unsure of how to react to this new information. He turned back to Mr. Byron instead.

"So what are our new orders?" asked Dean, the sweat forming on his forehead.

"There are multiple reports of a large number of unruly citizens rioting on Main Street. All available units are advised to make their way there and to attempt to quell the rioting immediately. Any citizens that you've saved are to be taken to the closest refugee centre, which will most likely be the Station. Over."

"Got that," replied Dean, hanging up his radio and moving back over to where Ben and the old man were stood. "Control says we're all needed on Main Street to quell a riot in progress. Half the precinct's already there apparently." He had a slight chill at the mention of the word 'riot'. After what he'd seen today, he doubted that these 'rioters' were likely to be quelled by half the city's police force and a small army's worth of firepower. But then he had a duty to turn up and help his companions.

"All right then," said Ben, looking over to the old man. "Come on Mr. Byron, we're going to get you to a safe place. Come with us, please. " Mr. Byron said nothing as he holstered his revolver in his back pocket and followed Ben over to the cruiser, getting into the back seat as it was held open for him. His fearful expressions showed that he'd at least heard some of the radio conversation, and was naturally fearing for his life. Dean walked round to the passenger side, holstering his handgun as he did so, and pulled the door open.

CRASH!

The sound of shattering glass made him jump and he looked round at the building that was next to Byron's Groceries. The windows on the ground and first floors were shattering and a figure was sliding out of each one, landing on the street with a wet thud. Within a few seconds they were rising to their feet, all the while Dean watched them with a form of sick fascination as they slowly approached, letting out a cacophony of moans as they did.

"Oh my!" stuttered My Byron from in the cruiser.

"Dean! Get in the damned car and let's go!" shouted Ben, whose foot pressed down on the clutch and he held the handbrake in anticipation. Dean snapped back to reality and pulled himself back into the car, snapping his belt on as Ben put his foot right down and screeched away from the group approaching the car. Dean looked back over his shoulder at them as the figures vainly followed them a short distance, as the cruiser turned the corner and sped away into the night.

"Damn…" muttered Ben, shaking his head. He too was beginning to sweat, shaking his head to try and make sense of the things he'd seen so far. He swerved the car around a burning jeep that had crashed through the front door of a pharmacist, then slowed down to maneuver past a pile of wrecked cars, flames licking around the undercarriage of one of them. And all around this chaos were more and more figures, all of them staggering about drunkenly with vacant expressions on their faces and looking like dead men walking, literally. They passed a bit too close to one of them, and Ben got a close look at the peeling flesh, vacant facial expression, and milky eyes with no trace of humanity left in them.

"Where the fuck did these things come from?" he said to no-one in particular, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his hand.

"Can't you tell?" said Dean, looking out at the strange figures. "Look at their clothes: those people are Raccoon's citizens!"

"What?" said Ben in disbelief. "You saying that the civilians are all turning into cannibalistic crazies? That's not possible, man!" He was finding everything rather overwhelming, which was understandable really. Dean never believed that things such as this existed in reality, but barely 15 minutes ago he'd seen people who were once normal take several bullets to the torso to put down, and attack with no regard for their personal safety. There was only one possibility running around inside his head, and he didn't want to say it out loud, cause it was to implausible even for someone he when young always believed in stuff like that, even though it was physically and scientifically impossible.

"What is it Dean?" asked Ben all of a sudden, swerving around a wrecked car pile-up.

"No, it's impossible."

"What is?" asked Ben, being a bit more forceful this time. Dean sighed and prepared to say what was on his mind, and prepared to get belated for it.

"Those people out there...they're zombies. That's the only thing that comes to mind for me."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Hello all. First of all, thanks for the reviews. I only have...2 so far, but still every one of them is appreciated, so thanks you very much. Right, here's my next update, so enjoy, and R + R please. :)**

Chapter 4: Massacre

**September 26****th**** 1325 hours**

"Zombies?" replied Ben in a slightly mocking tone, in response to Dean's explanations for the deranged townspeople walking around at the moment. "Stuff like that only exists in the movies, Dean. You really should get more sleep!"

"Well how else would you explain it?" replied Dean angrily. They had stopped by the Station to drop Mr. Byron off, and could see a large number of civilian refugees was rapidly building up in the R.P.D's main hall, half of them terrified out of their wits and some of them wounded and bleeding all over the place as well. But they had to be going, and left as quickly as they arrived, trying and failing to ignore the screams of pain and distress that followed them out the main door. They were nearly at Main Street, and Dean was trying to convince his partner that the things wandering around were flesh-eating zombies straight out of _Dawn of the Dead_, one of Dean's all-time favourite films when he was growing up. It was proving a bit harder than originally thought.

"Come on, it's obvious!" retorted Dean with a wave of his hand. "They're slow as hell, damned stupid, are rotting away, stink to high heaven and want nothing more than to feed on fresh human flesh! All the classic hallmarks of a zombie species!"

"Whatever man," replied Ben, as he could make out a convoy of police vehicles ahead of them in the street. "Zombies don't exist, not then and definitely not now. It's scientifically impossible. You just keep your head straight you hear? We're going into the maelstrom here."

"My head's just fine," snapped Dean, checking that his Beretta was fully loaded as the car began to slow down.

Ben said nothing else as he pulled the car up behind a SWAT van, noting that at least 30 officers were at the barricade, most of them taking cover behind their vehicles, their weapons aimed down the street. There were at least a dozen SWAT officers among them as well, all well-armed with MP5's, M4A1's and Benelli Shotguns. Ben and Dean got out, cocking their weapons and checking they were ready to fire. Ben went round to the car trunk and popped it open, retrieving something from inside and handing it to Dean.

It was an M4A1 assault rifle, a rather powerful weapon compared to the many handguns, shotguns and sub-machine guns present at the barricade. Dean looked at it with a measure of admiration, then back up at Ben.

"Is that even standard issue?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Look, does it matter right now?" groaned his partner, handing Dean some spare clips for the mighty weapon. "You can break my balls for breaking protocol during the victory celebrations, deal?" Dean smirked in response, then turned and ran down towards the front of the barricade. He took up cover behind another patrol car, next to a pair of fellow officers, one he recognised as Elliot Edward. The man was aiming an MP5 sub-machine gun down the street, clearly shaking from fear.

"Just look at them," he muttered, to no-one in particular.

Dean looked down the street to see the approaching 'rioters'. There were at least a hundred of them, maybe up to two hundred, all of them a variety of genders and ages, from elderly females to young children that were barely into their teens. Seemed like everyone was getting caught up in this mess. They were about 80 feet away at the moment, and would be within firing distance shortly. The chorus of moans that came from them was disturbing to say the least, and glancing about he noticed many officers were strangely silent, looking grim and scared shitless. It was understandable really: none of them were trained for this sort of opponent.

He looked over his shoulder to see Ben stood there next to another squad car, aiming over the hood with his Beretta, obviously saving the short-range shotgun if any of the rioters got too close. He flashed a quick wink to his partner.

"Don't worry, this'll all be done with in 5 minutes tops," he said reassuringly. Dean nodded back in response, but at the same time he felt like this wouldn't go as easily as they all wished.

The 'rioters' came closer now, and now every officer could see them close up now. All of them had flesh that was beginning to rot and peel away in places, and some of them even had limbs dangling off or had their internal organs hanging out from ruptures in their stomachs. Rather disturbingly, they could still hear human screams coming from within the crowd, quickly cut off by the sound of tearing flesh and blood splattering on the ground. It looked like there were innocents caught up in the chaos.

"Jesus!" blurted Jean, a blond-haired officer standing close by to Dean. The Mossburg shotgun was clearly shaking in his grasp as he aimed down at the approaching crazies. Right now, Dean himself was scared shitless himself and was praying that the order to open fire would be given shortly. He flexed his left hand a little, re-fixing his aim on the closest rioter, a young man in a black shirt and torn jeans, centring his aim on the man's chest, as the recoil would kick his aim upwards when he pulled the trigger. He also flicked his rifle to burst mode, just as the order everyone was waiting for was given.

"FIRE!"

The R.P.D's guns discharged all at once, with a barrage of handgun, shotgun and rifle ammo tearing through several rioters straight away, knocking them down immediately. Dean sent his first target flying with a burst to the face, then switched aim and dropped two more with bursts into their torso regions. The noise was deafening, what with the constant firing and the shouting from the various officers assembled.

"Have some of this!" shouted a SWAT officer as he unloaded his MP5 into the chest of a portly man wearing a green vest. The man staggered under the force of the rounds hitting him and fell face first to the floor, only to pull himself to his feet barely a second later, bleeding from his numerous wounds. "Holy shit!" blurted the officer as he resumed firing. Only once the entire clip was emptied did the man fall and never rise up again.

It was happening all along the barricade, like a scene out of a horror movie. The rioters were shrugging off bullet wounds like mosquito bites as they charged the barricade, and it only took a huge amount of effort to kill most of them. Many of the officers were beginning to panic now, their shots going wide as their ammunition supply was rapidly draining away.

"There's too many of them!" screamed an officer as he fired into the crowd with his Remington shotgun, before fumbling to reload it in the heat of battle. Another swat officer armed with an M79 grenade launcher fired am explosive round directly into the crowd, and blood and body parts were sent flying in all directions, but when the smoke cleared, most of the rioters were still alive, dragging themselves along the ground despite missing their legs or lower bodies.

"Die you mother fuckers!" screamed Ben from behind Dean as he fired into the approaching throng, dropping a few with direct headshots. Dean was busy reloading his Rifle when he saw this. Headshots dropped these freaks instantly, while it took a lot more ammo in other body parts to drop them for good. A feeling of dread descended over Dean, even over all the shouts and gunfire.

These people _were_ zombies…

"AIM FOR THEIR HEADS!" he screamed as he slammed a new clip into the gun and bought it up, instantly dropping two zombies with deadly headshots. Most of the nearby officers saw this new tactic and began aiming for heads, and now the number of zombies that fell began to increase. The bodies were piling up in front of the barricade now, but despite that the number of fresh enemies approaching was increasing more and more. For every one shot down, two more seemed to take its place. Dean could make out more and more zombies appearing from the numerous alleyways along Main Street, seemingly drawn out by the sound of battle.

The zombies were within 20 feet of the barricade now, and showed no signs of stopping, even as a measure of firepower equivalent to a small army pounded them relentlessly.

"Fuck!" shouted a uniformed officer as he dropped his now-empty shotgun and drew his sidearm, firing into a trio of approaching zombies. Even the highly-trained SWAT officers were beginning to show their obvious panic, slowly backing away as the zombies were nearly upon the barricade. One of them didn't look where he was going and walked back into an open car door, falling to the ground in the process. He aimed up and fired into the face of a zombie about to fall on top of him, but that didn't stop two more of them falling onto him, tearing into him with their bare teeth as he screamed in agony.

"Holy shit!" cried Dean as he started firing at the zombies that were trying to claw their way over the hood of a nearby patrol car. Several fell, but he was too late to prevent a massacre.

Terrified officers were caught up in the crowd, dragged down and torn apart by their unarmed opponents. The sounds of flesh being torn from the bone and blood-curdling screams took over from the gunfire that rang through the air before, and the barricade descended into utter chaos. A SWAT officer fumbling to reload his shotgun was grabbed by a large zombie in a biker jacket and had a chunk torn out of his shoulder, but he managed to punch the creature away and shoot it dead with his sidearm. Blood poured out the rent in his arm as he looked down at it, only for a trio of zombies to grab him at once and tear into his throat, killing him instantly. Dean also saw Officer Perry unloading the last of his ammo into the approaching horde, only for him to run out and just stand there frozen with terror as they grabbed him and tore him apart like a piece of meat. He never had time to scream. Dean even saw the young Eric Sands fall to their monstrous opponents, who continued firing even as they dragged him to the floor and tore into his throat and chest.

"Jesus Christ!" blurted Jean, who nearly fell over Dean as he backed away in abject fear. Dean moved away from the car he was stood behind as nearly a dozen zombies were trying to claw their way over the hood, their mouths opening to expose their jagged teeth. He fired into them, knocking a few more dead, but there was always more ready to take their place. Somewhere to Dean's right, another officer was pulled screaming over the hood of his patrol car and engulfed by a wave of rotting flesh. For all their training and heavy weaponry, the police had no formal training for dealing with undead humans with a taste for human flesh. Dean saw Neil Carlsen unload his current magazine into the approaching throng, before he shouted something inaudible over the noise and began to turn away and flee from the barricade. Several other officers turned to follow him, with them Marvin Brangh, David Ford and Mayer, one of the better marksmen in the force.

Dean snapped out of his train of thought when a hand grabbed him by the shoulder, and he was pulled round to look into Ben's eyes, who now had his shotgun drawn.

"We have to get the fuck away from here, man!" he shouted into Dean's face to make sure he was heard. Dean nodded in response, and then turned back towards what was left of the barricade.

"FALL BACK! FALL BACK!" he shouted to the surviving officers around him, and began to back away. Some of the officers head his desperate cries and began to turn and run away from the scene of bloodshed, but others stood where they were, apparently performing some kind of heroic last stand against the zombies. He shouted again and again in an effort to make them come along, but to no avail. They were systematically overwhelmed and torn down, as crowds of zombies huddled around their fallen forms to chew on them like a lunchtime buffet.

Dean screamed in rage and fired his M4A1 on full auto into the crowd, tearing several of them apart until it finally clicked on empty, and he tossed it away with a scowl, drawing his sidearm instead.

"Come on man!" shouted Ben from behind him again. Accepting defeat, Dean turned and ran as fast as he could, away from the empty moans, away from the sounds of flesh being torn from the bones, away from the remains of his dead comrades.

But he hadn't seen the worse of it yet.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dean was running for his life, alongside Ben, and Officers Jean and Elliot Edward of the R.P.D. He wasn't sure exactly how many survived, but a handful of officers from the initial 30 were running ahead of them, and about a half dozen SWAT officers had escaped intact as well. The run back to the R.P.D wouldn't be easy though. Car wrecks blocked up the streets, as small fires were raging out of control and more and more creatures were emerging from the shadowy back alleys of the City. He dodged around a well-dressed zombie that lunged at him with dirty fingernails and an open maw then bobbed back to avoid the grasp of another that was crawling on its belly. Raccoon City had descended into utter chaos. They needed the damned army to fix this mess!

"What the fuck?" exclaimed Ben, who was struggling to keep a good hold of his shotgun as they ran on. "Why the fuck has it got this bad?!"

"Less talk, more running!" shouted Elliot in response, who was having difficulty in keeping up with his colleagues. Up ahead, they saw the initial survivors duck down another alleyway. Neil Carlsen remained in the open, waving at the stragglers to catch up.

"Come on!" he screamed, before vanishing down the alley. The group slowed down and turned the corner, Dean glancing behind him to see a group of about a dozen officers were following them back to the station. A horde of zombies was following not far behind them, and they had to put some more distance between them and the throng. Who knew how far these zombies would travel to try and get some food?

He saw that one of the larger officers was beginning to lag behind, obviously not used to lots of running.

"Dean!" shouted Ben, as the other officers in the group passed him by while he continued to stare at the officer who was lagging behind. He couldn't leave him behind to be turned into a chew toy; he had to do something…

"Keep going!" he shouted back to Ben as he armed his Beretta and began to run towards the officer. "I'll catch up with you guys!"

"DEAN!" he heard his partner scream back in an exasperated manner. Dean was concentrating on the fat officer though, who had now turned to opening fire on the zombies approaching him, unaware of the pair approaching from behind him. Dean opened fire, dropping both of them in quick succession, and the officer turned round in fright, looking shocked as he saw the freshly-dead zombies at his feet.

"Watch your back," he told the man, shoving him slightly towards the alley the others had disappeared down. "Now let's get the fuck outta here!" Making sure that the other officer didn't fall behind again, the two of them chased after their comrades, dodging around another pack of zombies, Dean shoving one of them to the floor in the process. Charging past litter bags and bins, Dean nearly tripped over a stack of old newspapers in his rush to escape, as a wooden door somewhere close behind him gave way and collapsed, another body picking itself off of the object, as others were filing through from behind it. They kept going, emerging out onto Warren Street, only a few blocks away from the station…

He could see the other survivors running ahead of them, and Ben waving his arms frantically for them to catch up.

"Come on!" he cried, before turning to run again. Dean started to pump his arms to catch up with them, while still casting a glance back at the other cop to make sure he wasn't being left behind. It was going well. Soon they'd be back at the safety of the station…

Gunfire rang out suddenly when they hit the crossroads with Euston Street. Up ahead, another crowd of zombies had suddenly appeared behind the first group, effectively cutting them off from Dean and the other officer. Some zombies were dropping straight away, but most of them were still advancing on the police. Dean pulled to a halt just away from the crowd. Through all the chaos, he could make out a lone officer separated from both groups and running for his life to the North, away from the station. He was as good as dead now.

"No!" he cried out, inadvertently attracting some undead attention to himself. He was already firing into them as they started to approach him, arms outstretched, their faces vacant as always. He could see Ben and the other officers on the other side of the flesh wall unloading into them with all their might, but they had to save something for whatever would seek them out at the station.

"We have to get going!" shouted Neil Carlsen, as some of the other officers had already taken his advice and were running further down the street, disappearing into the smoke and carnage.

"No!" shouted Ben in response, gunning down two more zombies. "Not without Dean!" He was trying to clear a safe route through the zombie wall, but Neil's hand on his shoulder bought him away from that.

"We have to go! We can't waste our time and ammo on every rotting fucker we come across!"

"Bullshit! That's my friend back there!" shouted Ben back in response, indicating to Dean and the other officer fighting for their lives on the opposite side of the horde. He unloaded his current magazine and went for another.

"Come on!" shouted Carlsen again, practically dragging him backwards away from the fight. "He's a good officer, I'm sure he'll be fine!" Neil finally turned and began to jog down the street, but Ben stayed for longer, trying to catch his friend's attention amongst all the violence.

"Dean! You have to get somewhere safe! Just worry about yourself!" And with that he turned and sprinted away after the other officers, leaving Dean and his companion to their own devices.

Dean saw his friend disappear into the distance, and he now realised he was alone. Overwhelmed by fear, the other officer that was with him took off to the East, running towards the Circular River.

"Shit!" exclaimed Dean, after realising he was alone against a tide of zombies. Holstering his sidearm, he took off after the cop, weaving around yet more zombies who blocked his path. Up ahead, he saw the cop tear open an unlocked door and disappear inside, slamming it hard. Barging through a tall zombie dressed in a leather jacket and jeans, he came up to the door and pulled on the handle himself. It didn't budge. He yanked it again and again, but to no avail. It'd been locked from the inside.

He hammered on the door with all his might. "Hey! Open up! I'm still trapped out here!"

"No fucking way, man!" replied a pathetic voice. "I open the door and those freaks will get in!"

"You don't open this fucking door, they won't be the only things trying to kill you!" shouted Dean back, glancing at the approaching zombies. The only response he got was another whimpering cry, followed by pained sobs. Dean couldn't waste anymore time here, otherwise he'd be next on the menu.

"Suit yourself!" he shouted back to the whining coward, taking off running down the street again. He dodged around another pack of zombies, past the still-burning wreck of a fire-engine that had planted itself into an apartment building engine-first. He came to another cross-road at the end of the road, at the side of the Circular River. He suddenly realised where he was now. He was only a short ways away from his apartment, and hopefully, some sanctuary.

Another chorus of moans forced him to move again, sprinting south along the riverside, noticing that even more zombies were emerging to stand before him. There were at least a few dozen of them, and they were congregating around the entrance to the Riverside Apartment Complex where he lived. He'd have to go through them to get to safety, but even if he got past them what was to say there wasn't even more of them lurking inside?

He'd have to deal with that when he got there. For now, he barged shoulder-first into a tall male zombie, bowling him to the ground, then skirted around another that lunged at him, falling face-first into the ground. He kicked out at a female zombie, throwing her backwards into two more, and all of them fell over one another as they tried to reach out for their next meal. Dean didn't plan on stopping any time soon, as he danced around another pair of rotting corpses, as he made a bee-line for the main entrance of the complex.

He was almost there when the door was suddenly broken off of its hinges in a hail of wooden splinters and a living tide of rotting, walking corpses fell out, some of them being slowly consumed by fire that was creeping up their bodies. This sudden event nearly made Dean fall back in shock, and as a result the nearby zombies tried to take advantage of that. He suddenly felt a hand grab him by the shoulder, and felt some putrid breath brush the back of his neck, but in response he thrust his elbow back, striking his attacker and throwing it off with a crack. He took off again, skirting around the newly-arrived crowd of zombies that were now blocking the main entrance. His apartment was located off to the side of the front of the building, so he was hoping he could still reach it if it meant a slight de-tour.

Skirting past more shambling figures, he ducked into the side alley to the apartment complex, and began to run down towards the fire escape. Unfortunately for him, it was out of reach, which made sense as no-one was expected to use a fire escape from the outside. But the moans that were filtering in behind him compelled him to get as far away from them as possible. His eyes darted back and forth, trying to find something he could use to reach the ladder and his gaze settled on a nearby dumpster.

Blessing his sheer luck, he dashed over and grabbed onto it, trying to move it into an advantageous position. Luckily again, the thing was only half full, and with a bit of effort he moved it under the fire escape, with the rungs of the ladder just a few feet above him. He clambered up onto the dumpster and grabbed onto the lower rungs, and began to pull himself towards Heaven, but Gym class was never his forte and he was struggling a little to pull himself up, as the pain in his arms burned intensely.

"Come on!" he seethed through clenched teeth, as he threw on his arms up to grab onto a higher rung, and gradually pulled himself up to finally plant his feet onto the lowest rungs, and allowed himself to relax for a moment, as he looked down at the small crowd that had assembled below him. Men and women of various shapes, sizes and age gazed up at him through hollow eye sockets and with vacant expressions. That look terrified him to the core, because it was impossible to tell what emotion they were supposed to be feeling. Then again, being mindless zombies, they probably lacked emotion now, just an endless hunger to feed upon any other living being they could find.

He shuddered at that last thought and clambered up onto the first floor platform, before making his way up another two floors, so he was on the 3rd floor. He came up to a rather grimy window and strained to peer inside. The low light in the alley didn't help matters much either, but with a little effort he could make out the rather dull-coloured couch, with the numerous nacho crumbs on it, and the videos scattered about the place, and the battered Fender Strat guitar propped up in the corner near the door. Exactly as he'd left it when he left that morning.

"Bingo," he muttered, as he took out his Beretta and used the butt of it to smash through the glass before stepping inside his home. He'd have to pay for a new window now, but he had more taxing things to worry about, such as how he'd survive this mess he was in to begin with. Striding over to the door, he checked that it was still locked, and then also slid the chain into place, to ensure that it'd stay un-breached, for a while longer at least. He put his ear to the door listening intently for any sounds of nearby undead. Somewhere close by, he could hear a loud moan, but no shuffling footsteps, so he breathed a slight sigh of relief and moved over to the TV. He held his breath as he pushed the power switch.

Much to his surprise, it clicked on straight away. The image quickly filtered in to show an urgent news bulletin, with the words 'CHAOS IN RACOON' displayed across the bottom. The time and date was also shown in the top corner of the screen: it was almost 2:34 PM, over an hour since he and Ben had first come to the barricades. The image showed a helicopter fly over of Raccoon City, and he could clearly make out countless figures wandering the streets. Somewhere amongst them all, a pick-up truck swerved to avoid a small crowd of figures and promptly ploughed into a building, exploding into an orange fireball.

"Hours following an incident at the Raccoon Shark's game, the entire city has fallen into chaos as countless psychotic citizens have taken to the streets, attacking all others indiscriminately," explained an unseen female newsreader. The camera zoomed in to show a desperate young man stood upon the roof of a sedan while dozens of zombies surrounded the bottom, trying to claw away at him with their hands while he desperately tried to fight them off with a baseball bat. Eventually though, the man lost his footing and tumbled into the horde, literally being swallowed up like he was nothing.

Dean felt a chill run up his spine as he settled into his sofa seat. "No one knows the reasoning behind these attacks, but the people of Raccoon are advised to remain in their homes and to bar all entry points to anyone who doesn't look human. We've have also received reports that even your loved ones may have turned psychotic, and if this is the case, do not approach them at all." Dean sighed. At this point, he was glad that his family were somewhere else than here, in the city of the damned.

The image suddenly switched to one that made Dean's blood chill even more. It was a bird-eye's view of the police barricade he had just fled from, and now he could experience the slaughter and chaos from a totally new angle. He could clearly make out himself and Ben firing desperately into the approaching crowd, and some other officers he knew backing away in abject fear as the zombies fell upon them and began tearing into them like they were an appetiser. Then they began to fall back, and the camera panned out to show the full extent of the chaos, as a living tide of former humans rolled over the barricade like it was nothing, and the former defenders of Raccoon's peace fled for their lives. "Other reports have shown that the R.P.D have failed to contain this threat as well, and are no longer in any position to do anything to aid the beleaguered people of Raccoon."

Dean sank back into his seat and tried to piece together everything that was happening. When he got up that morning, the whole city was as it had been for the last few weeks, but within hours of his shift starting it had all gone to hell. Fires were starting across entire blocks, the emergency services were stretched to breaking point and most of all, the population had turned from regular citizens into flesh-eating monsters with little regard for their personal safety or any form of reconciliation. During his escape from the barricade, he had seen zombies literally throwing themselves out of 3rd and 4th floor windows in a desperate attempt to reach their prey. It was chaos, utter chaos.

And he was stuck in the middle of it all.

He'd remembered being told that the roads out of town had been barricaded by the military, presumably to prevent anyone or anything from escaping. He could try and make a dash for one of these barricades, but what was the chance they'd see him as a threat and ventilate him before he got within 30 feet of them? And even if they didn't, what was the chance they'd just turn him away instead? He could try and find some other way out of town, like a train or maybe even a plane, but what were the chances that those routes were guarded by the military or even destroyed?

Either way, he couldn't just stay there, he had to get somewhere relatively safe and stay there until he could think of another plan of action. But then again, who knew if there were any safe havens left in this crazy place? Another moan, sounding a bit too close for comfort, snapped him back to his senses. He realised it was coming from outside in the hall, and he could then make out shuffling footsteps, and quickly he flicked the TV off to make sure he didn't give away his position. The footsteps continued, past his door and away further down the hall.

He breathed a sigh of relief just as he felt his stomach grumble, and he held his palm to it. He hadn't eaten since breakfast that morning, so he'd have to find himself some sustenance before he moved on, first of all. He rifled through his cupboards, and groaned as he realised he had no decent food left. He remembered that he was going shopping after his shift today, but now it looked like that would be on hold for a while.

He managed to unearth a pack of pasta, a few candy bars and a large bag of nachos. He dropped some of the pasta into a pan of water that was on the oven ring (the power still worked amazingly, despite the rabid zombies running amok all over the city), and made his way back into the lounge, stopping when he saw his reflection in the mirror.

He was a mess. His hair was matted with sweat and his face was covered in dirt and soot, probably from his escape from the barricade and sprint through Raccoon's filthy back alleys. His police shirt was spattered with blood, not his own, including what looked like a chunk of brain tissue lying on his shoulder, probably from a head shot to a zombie that got too close for comfort. He cursed for not realising sooner that he needed to freshen up, and made his way into his bedroom.

He opened up his wardrobe and began looking over all of his shirts. He had at least 20, but he only wore about 6 or 7 on a regular basis, and he eventually settled on a plain black tee shirt, and coupled that up with a pair of old jeans that were a bit big for him, but he'd rather have something that was more comfortable if he was going to be running a lot in the next few hours in order to escape from this place.

Piling his change of clothes on the bed, he wandered back into his kitchen in time to stop his pasta from over boiling. A few moments later, he transferred the pasta into a bowl and he bought it back to his seat as he looked at it.

"Better than nothing," he thought as he tucked in. After that, he had two candy bars (he was that hungry, probably due to the exertion in the last hour or so). He didn't bother to clean anything away; as he was convinced he wouldn't be coming back here again. Instead, he carefully removed his police issue shirt and pants, throwing them into the far corner. He placed his belt with his nightstick, side holster and spare clips on the sofa, and made his way into the bathroom. Once inside, he removed his underwear and socks, leaving him naked, and he suddenly felt a chill run down his body. Undeterred, he stepped into the shower and turned it on, feeling the blistering hot water on his skin change to a more tolerable heat gradually. Reaching for the soap, he began to rub himself down, as dirt, sweat and blood disappeared down the plughole.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Outside, fires burned into the night, pillars of smoke reaching to the heavens, while below things no longer human wandered the streets, searching for anything necessary to sustain their endless hunger. The formerly human Eric Sands gazed ahead of him with hollow eyes, still clutching his empty Beretta in his right hand, blood still leaking from the numerous bites in his neck and shoulder. He moaned loudly once more, as the dozens surrounding him joined him in a macabre chorus.

Raccoon City was dying.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Before we start, I'd like to say that I made a mess up with the time at the start of my last chapter, as it actually went back in time compared to Chapter 3, so the time at the start there should read 1425 hours, not 1325 hours. So anyways, on with the story...**

Chapter 5: Survival of the Fittest

**September 26****th**** 1723 hours**

Dean Travers walked back into his main apartment, now dressed in his casual clothes, along with a pair of old black sneakers that would be comfortable for any running around he'd have to do in the next few hours or so. He rubbed his hair dry with a white towel and tossed it into the corner along with the old police clothes he had abandoned before grabbing for his comb and he began to pull it through his hair so it didn't look so messy. Hair appearance was the least of his concerns at the moment, but despite that he was still conscious of how he looked.

_Maybe there's still some hot women who haven't become zombies yet_, he thought. _Then again, probably not_.

That out of the way, he picked up his police utility belt and clipped it around his waste, making sure it was secure so they'd be problems in the middle of a dangerous situation. He'd also kept his badge with him, slipping it into his left pocket, in case he had to identify himself to anyone who could possibly mistake him for a zombie or some criminal trying to take advantage of the whole situation. He had to prepare for any eventuality now. Heading towards a nearby cupboard, he opened it up and took out a military-style sidepack, which consisted of a small leather pack that hung at his side, held on by a set of braces that went around his body, so it didn't get in his way while also giving him some essential space to keep anything important he needed.

He grabbed for a few spare candy bars and dropped them into his side pack, along with a can of Umbrella-manufactured first-aid spray, a crowning public glory for the company. It was simply a spray that, when applied to injuries such as cuts or bruises accelerated the healing process and also increased the body's immunity to any further risk of infection. It was rather expensive and there had been a shortage of it recently, so he had to save it for absolute emergencies. Then again, not being bitten by a zombie in the first place would be a wiser strategy.

He just had one more thing to bring with him before he moved on now. He made his way into his bed room and getting down on his hands and knees, reached under the bed and pulled out a large wooden box and settling it on the bed. He carefully undid the catches on the side and opened the box up, breathing in the aroma of fresh gunpowder.

Inside the box was a brand new S.P.A.S 12 Assault Shotgun, complete with a foldable stock and a shoulder strap, and next to that were two full boxes of 12-gauge shells, for a total of 40 fresh shells. Opening one of the boxes, he loaded eight shells into the mighty weapon, and cocked it so it was ready to fire. Emptying out the boxes, he transferred the shells into his side pack so they were easily available in case he had to reload quickly. Finally, he went to his wardrobe once more and took out an old denim jacket that was getting frayed at the sleeves and was stained with dirt and other random stains from its many years of avoiding the washing machine. Pulling it on, he then put the shotgun strap over his shoulder and let the weapon hang at his back, so it wouldn't get in his way too much.

The weapon would be considered a bit much in any other situation, but due to the numbers of murders and attacks in the last few weeks, a friend recommended to Dean that he get something a bit 'heavier' just in case of any sudden emergencies. If any of his fellow officers found out he was keeping a military-issue weapon in his home he'd probably be charged for not having a licence for that, but now he was glad he kept it, the way things were now. Considering he could kill a zombie with a single headshot, he would hold onto the powerful weapon for situations when he his Beretta wouldn't do. He'd have to go easy on the ammunition as well, unless he could find a gun shop or something else that could give up some extra ammunition.

He had everything set now, it was time to go. He decided to go out through the window again, since he still thought that the apartment building was over-run by the undead by now, probably like everywhere else in town. Taking one last look around his apartment, he muttered a sort of goodbye, before moving towards the shattered window and was about to put one of his legs out on the fire escape.

Suddenly, his police radio, which he had left next to the TV, suddenly squealed with static before a familiar voice began to filter out. He jumped in slight shock and turned towards the radio. He was so set on making sure he was fully prepared for the dangers ahead he'd forgotten about taking the radio along with him.

"….anyone there? Anyone at all? This is important, damn it!" It was Ben, no doubt about that. So he did make it back in one piece. But his tone suggested that he was in some sort of trouble and needed help.

"We are stuck in the R.P.D building, and hundreds of those freaks are outside trying to break in and turn us into an appetiser! We need all the aid we can get, so if anyone out there is hearing this, make your way back to the precinct as quickly as you can! We're relying on you to-"

Dean grabbed the radio off of the side and held it in front of his face. "Ben! It's me, Dean! What the hell's going on?"

There was a slight silence, before the reply crackled through. "…..Dean? Jesus Christ man, I thought you were dead for sure!"

"Not just yet," replied Dean, "I had to drop by home for a few things. Looks like the whole town's gone to hell."

"You can say that again", replied Ben with a scoff. "Listen, we need all the bodies we can muster. You have to get back here if you can; it's not too far from where you live isn't it?"

"Just a few blocks," replied Dean, but what with all that going on outside, who knows how long it'll take for me to get there."

"It doesn't matter!" snapped Ben. "Just get here now!" As if to reinforce his dramatic pleas, screaming and shouting sounded in the background.

"I'm on my way," replied Dean, hanging up and holstering his radio at his belt, as he never knew if he'd need it again. Taking one final look around his apartment to make sure he hadn't left anything behind. This was the last time he'd ever set foot here, he thought.

Dean climbed out the open window and descended the fire escape into the night. He dropped onto the ground in seconds, and almost immediately, figures that were originally human beings began to shuffle towards him slowly, their arms outstretched.

Dean aimed his Beretta and cocked the hammer. "It's going to be a long night," he said to himself as he pulled the trigger.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ben Campbell put away his radio and looked about the main hall of the R.P.D. It was an utter mess.

Shortly after the survivors of the barricade had made it back to the station, a huge army of zombies had descended upon the station and were trying to break inside. The iron gates of the courtyard outside, and other hastily-built defences were holding the horde back for the time being, but it was only a matter of time before they would break through. Even worse, most of the civilians that were taking refuge in the station were turning into zombies themselves and causing even more carnage. He'd been forced to shoot the former Mr. Byron dead only minutes before: the former human's blood was splattered on his shirt front now. The old man was fine before, but after another civilian transformed into a zombie and took a bite out of his arm, his condition worsened and he eventually became one too. All around him what few officers who remained were attending to wounded civilians or officers, or were desperately nailing any wood they could find over the front doors and the doors into the West Wing, where moaning indicated that the undead had already taken over that part of the building. A handful of officers, among them David Ford, had been trapped within that area, and it was considered futile to go and try to help.

Marvin Brangh approached Ben, looking a bit worse for wear as he hadn't slept in hours. None of them had. He was holding a Desert Eagle .50 handgun that he had acquired from the evidence room a short time before. Normally, he'd be in big trouble for taking that from lock-up, but right now that didn't matter, as long as the weapon was there.

"Geez Marvin you look like shit," Ben said, showing concern.

"I'm fine!" insisted the sergeant, as he struggled to keep his eyes open, but he couldn't show any sign of slowing down or falling asleep at the job, so to speak. "Any luck getting into contact with anyone else?"

"Only person I could get was Dean, whether anyone else got the call is anyone's guess."

"That Travers kid?" replied Marvin. "…he's a good cop. Resourceful and initiative. He'll get here."

"I hope so," replied Ben. At his guess, only a third of the whole police force was left in the station, along with what few of the S.W.A.T members who were still alive as well. Chief Irons had apparently vanished as well: he'd shut himself away in his cosy office before the officers headed out to the barricade and no-one had been able to see or talk to him since. It was no great loss though, half of the surviving officers thought that Irons not being there would improve their chances of survival.

Suddenly there was the sound of something metal being thrown out, probably the steel gates in the courtyard being smashed open by the zombie horde. Ben's blood froze.

"They've broken through!" shouted an officer by the main doors.

"We're screwed!"

"It's all over!" cried another, cradling his face in his hands and sobbing slightly.

"It isn't over till I say so!" shouted Marvin, making his way towards the main doors. "We'll stand and fight like the protectors of the peace we are!" He loaded his Desert Eagle handgun and aimed it towards the doors.

"Please hurry Dean," said Ben as he took up a position next to Marvin and cocked his shotgun.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dean Travers sprinted down another alleyway, dodging the deadly cold grasp of the zombies that were coming at him from all angles. Although the mains streets appeared to be relatively empty, more and more zombies were beginning to emerge from the dark back alleys and gutted shops and homes on the streets, apparently drawn out by the presence of still-living prey roaming the streets. As far as Dean knew, most of the population had already succumbed to whatever had gripped Raccoon City, and he knew he couldn't waste his time fighting them all off, he just didn't have the ammo for it.

He leapt over a stack of wooden crates blocking his path, dodging to his left as a door slammed open and an obese zombie lunged out, its nails nearly scratching his chest. Another zombie arose from behind a set of trashcans, its hollow eyes staring into Dean's inner soul. He paid it no heed and sprinted on, until he nearly collided into a chain-link fence. Taking a good grip of the fence, he began to haul himself up and over it, grunting as it pushed into his stomach. He dropped down onto the other side, backing away suddenly as the zombies pursuing him began to batter on the fence in an attempt to break through.

"Sorry boys, but dinner's cancelled!" Dean spat, turning and running on. He ducked down a slightly wider alleyway with a stack of oil drums on one side, hearing the shattering of glass above him as the first floor windows shattered and more tenacious flesh eaters slid out onto the street. Reaching the steel gate at the end of the alleyway, he wrenched it open and passed through into a small courtyard, surrounded by apartment blocks and a large garage door, probably used for the shipping and transfer of warehouse goods or something similar. Looking about him, Dean cursed himself when he realised he'd gone and driven himself into a prison, as he could make out no doors he could use to escape from.

"Shit!"

A few seconds later, the gate he'd used to get into the courtyard was thrown open and a group of zombies piled in, at least ten of them, all dressed in civilian clothes and with a variety of injuries, ranging from minor cuts to missing limbs and exposed bones. All of them homed in on the still-living police officer, their arms outstretched. Dean brought his shotgun in front of him and cocked it, showing them he meant business, but still they approached him, oblivious to the powerful weapon he aimed towards them.

"Come on then, fuckers!" Dean shouted, aiming at the nearest zombie, a man in a blue plaid shirt and dress trousers. He fired, blowing the creature backwards, spraying blood onto the other zombies. He cocked the gun and fired again, laying two more zombies down, their torsos ruptured and split open, blood dripping onto the concrete. Another zombie, a female in very little clothing, lunged at Dean, but he stepped back and gave it a whack with the butt of his shotgun, spraying more infected blood and breaking the monster's neck with the strike. It fell to the ground limply.

Turning his weapon back around the right way, he fired twice more into the crowd at close range, tearing through a few more zombies, one of them having its head fully blown off, pieces of blood and bone flying in all directions. Only three zombies were left standing as the blood settled, still approaching Dean tenaciously, that vacant expression on their faces barely changing as they approached their inevitable fate. Dean gave them no chance to get too close, cocking his shotgun and blowing them away in sequence, one blast per zombie. The last one, a slim man in a business suit was literally blown in half by a point-blank shot, his legs collapsing to the floor while his upper torso dragged him forward on his arms, his mouth agape with bloody spittle and yellowed-teeth and his entrails trailing out from his severed waist. He managed to grab onto Dean's ankle with his left hand, but the human pulled his leg free from the deathly cold fingers.

"Not today!" he shouted. In a single, fluid movement, he bought his foot back and kicked forward into the creature's ugly face, snapping its head off and sending the object bouncing along the ground with a few wet splats, coming to a rest about 10 feet away. It was rather amusing to watch, Dean had to admit.

With the initial threat gone, Dean reloaded his shotgun, making a mental count of how many shells he had left. If he kept getting dragged into skirmishes like this he'd be left with little ammo left, and every shot would have to count in a situation like this. With his shotgun reloaded, he strapped it onto his back so it wouldn't get in his way when he was running. He then drew his Beretta and looked around the courtyard again.

He tried a door into one of the apartment buildings, but it remained stubbornly locked. He cursed and looked around, noticing something he hadn't seen before: a glowing switch next to the large garage door. With a little smile, he approached the switch and gave it a press, triggering something inside and causing the door to slowly open up. A sudden moaning alerted him to another imminent zombie attack, and he stepped away from the door, gun aimed towards the opening gap at his feet. A few seconds later, a rotting head appeared from underneath the door, and Dean put a bullet into it, slaying it with little fuss.

As the door fully opened up, another zombie, dressed as a mechanic, staggered out, dragging a broken leg behind it. Dean didn't give it a second longer and fired into its left eye, laying it low. When he was sure that it was safe, Dean made his way under the door into what looked like a mechanic's garage, complete with a rising lift, racks of tools and a pool of thick oil on the floor. Another dead mechanic was lying on his back near to an office, in a pool of his own blood, his torso and face savagely torn into. Dean carefully stepped over his body and looked around the office, turning up nothing useful, apart from an old revolver in one of the desk drawers, which was probably what the mechanic was going for when he was killed. With his search complete, Dean approached the door leading out onto the street and opened it carefully. It was one of the main streets of Raccoon, and he was fairly certain that it would lead him pretty much to the station. With his course set, he threw the door open and took off running up the street.

Numerous zombies were wandering the street, but they were far enough apart for Dean to weave around them, avoiding unnecessary fights in the process. They appeared to be just standing around dumbly at first, paying him no attention, but when he got closer they suddenly turned and approached him, set into gear by the presence of fresh prey. As he ran on, Dean could look around him and took in the sheer chaos taking place.

An apartment building was ablaze, the flames reaching to the heavens itself, a pillar of smoke belching away into the sky, turning it a deep black. Strangely, many of the street lights were still working, and it showed that the local power station hadn't been damaged in the devastation as of yet. Broken glass crunched under his feet as he ran on, ducking as a pair of arms covered in rotting flesh made a grab for him. All through this, he could make out distant screaming and gunfire. It looked like some people were still putting up a good fight.

Dean did a baseball slide over the hood of a crashed car, noticing a zombie trapped inside, desperately pounding on the door in an attempt to break free, its hollow eyes glaring back with an insatiable hunger. Dean kept running, noticing that the zombie numbers were beginning to increase, and he had to keep dodging and weaving to avoid them. He was even forced to draw his weapon to drop a few of the monsters that got in his way.

Eventually, he got to a junction, where going left would hopefully take him onto the street near to the station.

He turned the corner at high speed, but quickly skidded to a halt, nearly falling onto his hands in the process.

The entire street was choked from end to end with a literal wall of zombies. There were hundreds, probably even thousands, and they were so tightly packed together he could have walked across their heads to get across if he wanted to, but Dean knew his limits and wasn't crazy enough to try even that. He'd need some serious firepower to blast through them, and he was seriously lacking in that at the moment.

Almost as if the crowd sensed his being there, several of them immediately looked towards the officer and began to approach him, arms outstretched. Soon, a good portion of the horde was bearing down on Dean's position, along with the many more that were sneaking up behind him from where he'd come from.

"Shit!" he cursed, and took off running to the North, away from his pursuers and his ultimate destination. Although having to take the long route would mean he'd avoid becoming lunch for a bit longer at least. He didn't get very far though, as a literal wall of warped metal blocked his path, showing where an articulated truck had a head-on collision with a much smaller vehicle, probably a pick up truck. Glass crunched under his feet with every step, and zombies moaned from behind him.

"Great," he muttered, looking for an escape route. His gaze settled on another iron gate built into the space between a pair of high-rise buildings, and he made a dash for it. Unfortunately, it barely budged as he tried to wrench it open.

"Fuck!" He kicked at it a few times, but still it refused to budge. Behind him, he heard more moaning, this time dangerously close, and he had to act quickly. Seeing no other alternative, he pulled out hi shotgun and levelled it towards where the lock would be. He fired, the first shot deflecting away from the steel, but the second one broke through and he heard something break off on the opposite side of the gate. With little time to pause, he barged into it shoulder-first, and it practically fell of its hinges, Dean falling flat on his front as a result.

He picked himself up with a grunt, suddenly feeling a cold, deathly hand on his shoulder.

Quick as a flash, he span round and struck his rotting ambusher on the cheek with his shotgun barrel, throwing it to the ground but not killing it. He didn't need to waste any more time as he made his way through the now open passage entry, nearly jumping out of his skin as rotten arms smashed through windows covered in wooden planks, their razor-sharp nails nearly catching him in the side as they waved frantically about in an attempt to catch something living. Dean had to practically force his body up against the opposite wall to avoid being scratched.

As he turned a corner, he saw the alley culminated in a low wall at the far end, and there just happened to be a dumpster at the foot of a wall. Taking it at a sprint, Dean hopped onto the dumpster and leapt towards the wall, grabbing onto the top with his spare hand, his right hand still holding onto his shotgun. With a bit of effort, he pulled himself over on top of the wall, rolling over and landing on his rear on the other side with a heavy bump, his shotgun falling from his grasp and clattering away from him.

Dusting himself down, Dean pulled himself to his feet out of a dead bush he'd landed in, noticing he was in an enclosed courtyard surrounded by apartment blocks, with another iron gate on the far side and a few washing lines with drying garments hanging off of them strung back and forth between the various buildings. Picking up his shotgun and putting it away behind his back, Dean started to make his way across the courtyard when he heard the sound of flesh being torn from the bone.

"Here we go again," he mused, readying his handgun. As he crept forward, gun raised, he saw a dog house, empty but with blood splashed around the entranceway, as if the previous occupant had been killed and eaten messily. Finally, he rounded the corner and almost balked at the sight he saw before him.

A pair of dogs was hungrily tearing into the dead body of a rather large man, and they'd already feasted upon parts of his face, torso and left arm. But at a glance he could tell these weren't normal dogs.

Their skin was covered in scars, cuts and welts, their ribs exposed through the side of their stomachs, and blood coating their teeth as they feasted upon the body. One of them, a Doberman, turned towards Dean as it messily chewed upon a mouthful of human flesh, and he could see that one of its ears had been torn off and its eyes had a pure white, milky appearance to them that the zombies shared. Looked like dogs were being affected by whatever the hell was to blame for this mess, he thought to himself.

The Doberman let off a growl and bounded towards Dean with the flesh still in its mouth as it leapt at his throat, but he reacted quicker, blowing it away with a shot to its stomach. The canine landed painfully on its side, thrashing about to get back onto its four feet, as the second dog, formerly a Labrador, its golden coat now matted thick with blood and gore, looked up from its meal and growled a warning before advancing. He quickly settled his aim onto the creature and fired into its face. As expected, the shot killed it instantly and it slammed into the floor face-first. As he was busy with that zombie mutt, the other one was now on its feet and growled at Dean again, sounding more agitated this time. It tried running at him again, but he sent it whimpering to its maker with a handful of shots into its front end. It bled out at Dean's feet, who took a step backwards to avoid getting it on his feet.

"So, even man's best friend isn't safe from whatever's causing all this shit," he mused aloud, checking the number of bullets left in his magazine. Looking around, his gaze settled upon a rusty gate leading into another darkened alleyway. Not willing to waste anymore time, he wrenched it open and stepped through, slamming it behind him and taking off at a run.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The main doors threatened to buckle again as countless bodies pressed up against them from the outside. Everyone was on edge, even Ben, who was known for keeping his head in practically every hairy situation. Right now, his grip was becoming sweaty and clammy on his shotgun as he aimed the barrel towards the doors and cocked it again. At least 3 officers were pressing up against the doors in a last-ditch effort to hold the undead assault off.

"We can't hold them off much longer!"

Several citizens who had a passing knowledge of firearms were standing amongst the officers standing in the hall, armed with all variety of firearms that could be scrounged up from what was left, from handguns through to shotguns and a couple of hunting rifles. Ben didn't know how much ammo everyone had between them, but he knew it was nowhere near enough to wipe out even half the population of Raccoon City, even if they got perfect headshots with every round, and he had a feeling that wouldn't be happening.

The doors buckled again, the wooden boards covering it beginning to crack along the middle.

"Ready to bring it?" asked someone next to him. He turned to glance towards Marvin, who offered him a reassuring nod.

"Yeah…of course," he replied, his enthusiasm not up to its usual standards. The doors buckled one more fateful time.

There was an almighty smash as the boards across the door split in half and the officers trying to hold the doors shut were knocked flying backwards as they flew open, and everyone in the hall got their first glimpse of the nearly-countless hordes of flesh-eaters trying to break in. One of the young officers was too slow to get out of range and he was literally buried under nearly a dozen bodies too eager to feast on his flesh.

"Here we go," said Ben mentally as he took aim at the ugly face of a man missing most of the skin and flesh off of his head and pulled the trigger.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dean suddenly recognised where he was. He was only around the block from Bar Jack, so he knew he was getting closer to the station now. The entrances into many apartment buildings on the left hand side of the street were blocked off with a number of random heavy objects, from wardrobes and pianos through to trashcans and bicycles. Looking at the windows, he could make out the shadowy forms of numerous human figures inside, but the slight swaying motion of their walk told him that they weren't friendly. Soon he was standing outside of Bar Jack itself, the street practically deserted of zombies, which was rather unusual, he thought to himself. Still, he decided to make the most of it, to see if Jack was still alive, or if he wasn't, at least look around for any spare ammunition the old man might be keeping hidden in his establishment.

He carefully approached the front door and opened it up, peeking inside. It looked spotless, not a stool or table overturned, or any blood smears on the ground.

"Jack?" he called out. No response came, so with a glance behind him he stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Only when he was fully inside the bar did he notice the single zombie standing near to the back door, its head lowered towards the floor as if it were napping. It was dressed as a police officer, one of the legs on its black pants torn away just below the knee to reveal the rotting flesh underneath. Its shirt was coated in dried blood, with more recent gore still dripping from a bullet wound in its left shoulder. Its black hair was mattered with blood and dirt, and he could make out a huge gash down the centre of its scalp, the skin peeling away to reveal the bone and brain tissue underneath.

Finally, the thing noticed Dean's presence and approached slowly, dragging its feet along the floor. It looked up at him, and Dean saw that its lips were torn away, revealing its yellowed teeth. Finally having enough of that horrendous sight, he raised his handgun and fired 3 times into its face, blowing away most of its head in sprays of crimson fluid. It fell hard through one of the tables next to it, overturning it and making a lot of noise. It would've been comical, if it weren't for the remorse Dean felt in killing something that used to be his colleague.

_Stop it_, he told himself. _You did him a favour_.

Holstering his weapon, he stepped around to the other side of the counter to look for anything useful, when his gaze settled on another corpse lying there. He raised a hand to his mouth in shock.

Who or whatever killed this guy certainly went to town on him. His stomach had been punctured open like a balloon, with his guts and entrails torn out and devoured hastily, blood splashed up onto the walls and counter surrounding the body. Most of the man's torso had been devoured as well, torn apart to the bone, the ribs clearly visible through the few bloody strips of skin and muscle left on it. The head had been messily devoured in the same manner too, the skull nearly visible in some places. Dean sighed and crouched down towards the body to pay his respects. Only when he got close did he realise that the body was clutching onto an ancient Mossberg shotgun, covered in dust and recent cobwebs.

The same shotgun only Jack himself knew the location of.

"Oh Jesus, Jack," said Dean, as he stood up suddenly. So much for stopping by to help the old man out, he thought. Carefully treading over Jack's remains, Dean began to ransack the numerous drawers behind the counter, looking for anything useful. He found several speed loaders designed for small calibre revolvers, no use for him. Having a thought, he opened the cash register and was rather surprised to find that there were a couple of full boxes of handgun bullets where the notes should be stored, but he appreciated his find either way. As there were two boxes, and he still had a few full magazines left, he just took one of the boxes, leaving the other for anyone else who could potentially come along and would be glad of the aid.

With nothing else left for him here, he began to make a move to leave the place, when a low, deadly moan made him freeze on the spot. He carefully turned back towards the counter, where a dark figure suddenly rose up from behind it. As it turned towards him, his blood ran cold upon realising what had happened to his former friend, who was like a father figure to half of the veteran officers on the force.

Jack was now one of them.

The former retired cop began to make its way around the counter, still clutching onto the Mossberg like his life depended upon it. He moaned again and glared at Dean like he was sizing up his next potential meal. Dean just turned and flew out of the door, as he couldn't bring himself to put down the poor guy. Someone else would have to.

Stepping back out onto the street, he turned to his right and began to follow the road along, past several recent corpses and boutique on his right hand side, the lights inside still left on. He was just beginning to take a bend when he slowed to a halt. Another undead feeding frenzy was taking place, with at least a dozen zombies crouched over a few gathered corpses, tearing away at them like it was an all you can eat buffet.

"Shit!" he said aloud, and started turning to go in the other direction, but even more zombies had suddenly appeared from where he had first entered the street, cutting off his main escape route. Now he was well and truly hemmed in.

"Not good…" he said. Then he noticed a nearby fire escape ladder had been lowered on the left side of the street, above some stacked wooden crates, just high enough for him to climb up onto. Giving thanks to whatever deity was looking over him, he clambered up onto the crates, just as a bony hand tried to grab onto his ankle with claw-like nails. He turned to look into the face of a former male punk, his hair still stuck up into a bright red Mohawk, before kicking him hard in the face, knocking him down from out of sight.

Getting back onto his feet quickly, Dean, clambered his way over a white van parked up against the crates and dropped down into another, mercifully zombie-free alleyway. Glancing around, the few doors he could see were nailed shut with wooden boards, tables and anything else to hand, and the way out was blocked off with a pile of random junk to act as a makeshift barricade. He sighed in defeat, before his gaze settled on a rusty ladder leading up the side of the nearby building.

_If you couldn't __go across, go up. _

"Works for me," he muttered, before climbing up the ladder at a brisk pace. Soon he pulled himself up onto the roof of the building, and could now get a view across a good portion of the city. Whole blocks were blazing red and yellow with flames as fire burned out of control, with no-one attempting to put them out. It was almost as if the whole city was burning. It was already becoming dark overhead, but the sheer amount of smoke was only making it much more oppressive in appearance. With a grimace, he crossed over the surface and came to a halt when he saw the edge of a rather familiar rooftop, decked out like some medieval fortress with numerous flagpoles reaching out from above the front wall, along with huge white letters which gave away the building's identity.

The R.P.D! He was almost there.

Then he looked down at the street in front of the station, and his face dropped like melted ice cream.

"That's not good."

Most of the street outside of the station was literally teeming with the undead, all of them pressing to get into the front entrance, which was wide open. The cacophony of moans was almost deafening, and the combined stench of so many zombies in one small area was threatening to overwhelm him.

He could hear constant gunfire and screaming from inside of the building. There were breaking in.

"Goddamn it!" he cried, looking about for a way down there quickly. His gaze settled on a wooden board acting as a make-shift bridge across to the next building along, and he looked like it would hold his weight (at least, he hoped it would). Making his way towards it, he carefully walked over it, keeping his arms out to balance himself. He was almost fully across when something went snap behind him, and he fell onto the next roof along, looking back to see the board bridge collapsing into the street below and breaking into shards when it landed.

"At least that wasn't my neck," Dean thought, getting to his feet. Looking around, his gaze settled on a rusty ladder on the edge of the roof, probably connected to the fire escape. Looking over the edge, he could see that the network of stairs and ladders led down to street level. Just his luck, he thought, as he began to clamber down carefully. Falling and breaking his neck would be embarrassing to say the least, especially if he could be eaten alive by zombies instead.

After a couple of minutes, he dropped from the lowest ladder into a dumpster full of garbage. Great, now he'd stink of old garbage and rotting flesh, if he got out of here alive.

He looked up to see the zombie crowd outside of the station, all of them oblivious to his presence. He couldn't go in through the front, obviously. Unless he was suicidal. Then he remembered the back entrance, and wondered if any of those freaks were smart enough to try and go in the other way rather than gather in large numbers. Probably not.

"Hold on just a little longer guys," he said aloud, checking that his weapon was ready and loaded. Looking about, he took off at a sprint down a street that was practically empty of the undead, desperately looking for another way inside the station.

**A/N: So here is Chapter 5 of The Fall of Raccoon! Enjoy people, and R + R if possible please. :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Right then, here's chapter 6 for all you lovely people. So you know the drill, R+R please and I might give you one back. :p**

Chapter 6: A Wasted Journey

**September 27****th**** 1823 hours**

Ben fired his shotgun again, decapitating a pair of approaching zombies in a burst of blood and bone fragments. All around him chaos was taking hold. The surviving police officers and any of the civilian survivors who could use a gun were firing into the veritable horde of zombies who had breached the main hall after several fruitless minutes of trying to hold them. The zombies came in all different shapes and sizes and dress codes, from men and women in casual street clothes, to those dressed in business suits to former police and SWAT officers and even a few zombies dressed in surgical scrubs, which probably originated from the hospital several blocks away. These zombies certainly had no qualms about moving large distances to find food. There were even several small children among the rotting horde. Of all the zombies attacking him, they were the only ones he hesitated in front of before pulling the trigger at.

There were only 12 people left in the hall who were capable of fighting, and only half of them were trained R.P.D officers. Everyone else was either dead, zombified or trapped elsewhere in the building. As far as Ben knew, most of the west wing was sealed off as zombies had managed to breach the defences there a few hours earlier, but the east wing remained relatively zombie-free. They couldn't kill every single zombie in Raccoon City, so they had to try and plan an escape sooner or later. The East Wing lead into the basement of the station, which was where the parking lot was, and presumably there was still a SWAT van left there that they could use to mount an escape with.

It was also known that the basement had an entrance that lead into the sewers, which gave them another potential escape route to use. But none of them knew what was lurking in the sewers, but then again it was better than waiting about in here to be eaten alive.

"Die you fuckers!" screamed Elliot Edward as he unloaded his MP5 into the approaching zombie horde, scoring several headshots in the process. Suddenly, the gun clicked on empty, and he tossed it into the crowd, striking a female zombie on the side of the head with a mighty crack and causing her to keel over as a result. Near him, Marvin fired his powerful Desert Eagle pistol into the crowd, scoring instant kills every time as the .50 bullets tore holes the size of basketballs through the fragile zombie's flesh. He stopped to load a fresh clip into the gun, as Ben changed his aim to force away the zombies that were approaching the distracted Lieutenant. They were running low on ammo and they all knew it.

They had plenty of ammo and weaponry stored in the basement armoury, but for some reason Chief Irons thought it would be a good idea to scatter the stockpile throughout the station in several small 'stashes' because of some unspecified terrorist threat, but half of those stashes were cut off from the main hall now, and going after them would be testament to suicide. They decided then and there they would leave the Chief behind, who had been locked in his cushy office for several hours now. By now everyone had seen him for how useless he was as a chief. That's why they preferred to rely on Marvin's leadership now.

"Holy shit!" screamed a young rookie officer, firing his Beretta randomly, killing a few zombies but wasting another clip in the process.

"Hold them back!" shouted Marvin, as he resumed firing.

"Easy for you to say," muttered Ben to himself as he reloaded his Shotgun with his rapidly-dwindling supply of 12 gauge shells. He only had 16 left, along with the 8 he had just loaded into his weapon. He had another box stashed under the front desk, but he had to use them wisely.

"I think we're winning!" cried Roger, a veteran uniformed officer, as the number of zombies advancing upon the survivors was rapidly thinning out. Soon, only about a dozen zombies were left in the hall, stumbling to step over the piled corpses of their brethren. Deciding to save his ammo, Ben dropped his shotgun and pulled out his Beretta sidearm, nailing a few zombies with perfect headshots as they struggled to get to him. Marvin and Elliot soon mopped up the rest of them, nailing the last zombie, a male in a joiner's apron and bloody jeans between them with a double headshot. As the deafening sound of gunfire died out and the smoke cleared, a veritable massacre awaited the surviving officers of the siege.

At least 50 zombies were lying dead on the ground, staining the once spotless green-marble floor a rather sickly crimson colour. Among them were a few still-human bodies.

"Get those doors barred, now!" shouted Marvin suddenly, holstering his weapon. Without waiting to be told twice, three officers ran up to the main doors and slammed them shut, before grabbing for several loose wooden planks and a nail gun, before boarding over the thick double doors as effectively as they could, while the other officers reloaded their weapons, or in Elliot's case, just sunk to their knees and offered up a prayer to whatever God was listening. Ben made his way over to the front desk and retrieved his small stash of shells from under the desk by the typewriter, about 24 in all, before he made his way over to Marvin.

"We need to get out of here now!" he half-shouted, the stress of the situation getting to him. The Lieutenant was silent for a few minutes, pacing around the hall and stroking his beard a few times before he finally turned back to Ben.

"Fine," he said, motioning for most of the other survivors to come closer. As a circle formed around him, he began to outline his plans once more. "Elliot's going to take a small group of us through the sewer entrance in the basement. Granted, we don't know what's down there but it's got to be better than waiting here to be killed. Ben?"

"Yes?"

"Myself and Neil are going to search the rest of the precinct to see if we left anyone behind. You take everyone else down to the parking lot and wait in the riot van down there. If we aren't there in 10 minutes, assume the worst and just get the hell out of here. It's not worth us all getting killed just for the sake of a few who were too slow."

"No way!" half-shouted Roger, shaking his head. "I don't want to leave anyone behind!"

"Me neither!" chipped in Simon, one of the only surviving SWAT officers, still holding his M4 rifle, and with his helmet gone to reveal his short dark hair and brown eyes. His face was sodden with dirt and soot as well.

"No arguments or otherwise!" replied Marvin. "We can't afford to dawdle, especially not now. Who knows when they'll be back?" Several annoyed gumbles came in reply.

The officers assigned to re-barricade the doors had only just finished their duty when moaning cut through the silence.

"Shit!"

"Time to move!" said Marvin briskly as he drew his gun and shouted for Neil Carlsen to join him. Elsewhere, another officer dragged Elliot Edwards to his feet and relayed to him Marvin's plans. As Ben gathered a handful of officers to his side, he suddenly remembered about telling Dean to come here.

"Shit! This place'll be overrun when he gets here! What a fuck up," he said aloud, hanging his head.

"Hey, Dean's a good cop," chimed in Roger. "He'll be smart enough not to come here."

"Hope you're right," replied Ben with a mumble as he made his way towards the door into the East Wing. Behind them, Marvin and Neil prepared to begin their search of the station.

"Good luck!" shouted Neil, as he pulled out his Beretta and checked that it was fully loaded. Ben just nodded in acknowledgement and wrenched open the door.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

His head held low and his Beretta in hand, Dean Travers dashed in a half-crouch down another passage, staying alert for any threats. Having witnessed the sheer scale of the zombie assault upon the station, he decided it would probably be best if he didn't go anywhere near that place. But his colleagues were trapped inside, and would be doomed unless he at least tried something to help them. So after he made his way back down to street level, he decided to go in through the back entrance in the parking lot, as it looked like the zombies had yet to work out that there was more than one entrance into the station. At the moment he was approaching the station from the East, and the streets were relatively free of zombies. But he was soon about to have another nasty surprise.

Rounding the corner, he skidded to a halt as another desecrated corpse lay before him, this one of a man in a white vest and black trousers, covered in numerous small cuts and bruises, lying a few feet from a crashed car wrapped around a lighting pole. A flock of pitch-black crows were pecking at the man's flesh, peeling away sections of his skin and flesh. One of them was even chewing on the man's torn-out eyeball, before swallowing it down like a gobstopper. Dean knew fine well that crows were scavengers, but he'd never seen them tearing into a dead body with ferocity like this. It was when the flock suddenly took to the air with a beating of feathered black wings and made a sudden dive for him did he finally realise that something was wrong with these birds.

With a cry of surprise he dodged to the left as one of the feathered fiends collided with the ground with a crack and didn't move at all, while he battered away another that came towards his face with his gun butt, dislodging several of its feathers in the process. He sprinted away as the other circled around to make another pass, and he was dashing as fast as he could towards the end of the passageway. Soon he saw an alley turning off to the left and ducked down it, hearing the beating of wings behind him as the crows were catching up.

He cursed to himself and ran faster, towards a barred iron gate. Reaching it with enough time to spare, he wrenched it open and slammed it shut behind him, as he heard the cracks of several crows connecting head-first with the closed gate. He looked behind him as most of the flock were killed instantly, but a few others rose up at the last second, clearing the top of the gate and lifting off into the dark sky.

"Even the crows are going crazy," he muttered to himself, thinking about those rotting dogs from before. What else was out there, now that Raccoon had gone to hell? He didn't stop to think about that as he jogged on, checking for any more crazed attacks from the sky.

After a short trek, he came to a chain-link fence with barbed wire strung across the top, sealing off one side of the passage from the main street. He peered out and recognised the back lot of the R.P.D. The street outside it was strewn with wrecked cars and other vehicles, in particular many cruisers with the letters R.P.D on the side. The corpses of several half-eaten cops lay around the vehicles, and piles of brass shell casings also littered the ground, indicating that they had attempted a defence here.

"Nearly there," he whispered to himself, noticing the small number of zombies wandering the street, oblivious of his presence. Yet he was forced to take the scenic route, and had to hurry up. After a few seconds, he took off again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Marvin Branagh and Neil Carlsen stood in the main hall, discussing their plans as more the moaning outside the front gates became louder and more frequent.

"We can use this to seal most of the doors in the hall," said Neil, handing a blue magnetic key card to Marvin. "When we're done with our search, one of us has to stay here and use it to prevent most of the building from being over run to a degree."

"OK," replied the sergeant, feeling a bit nervous at that suggestion. "We may as well start looking," he replied, making his way towards the door into the East Wing.

However, one of the corpses on the floor wasn't quite dead yet. A bald male zombie in a filthy brown tweed jacket with most of the flesh on its left arm missing rose to his feet behind Marvin as he was walking by, still bleeding from the numerous non-fatal bullet wounds in its torso. Neil looked around just in time to see the monster rising up behind his friend.

"Marvin!" he shouted. His companion spun round with his Desert Eagle in hand, but it was too late.

With unnatural speed the zombie lunged, latching onto the cop's shoulders and sinking its teeth into his left shoulder in a single, fluid movement.

Marvin cried out and shoved the creature back as it tore away a mouthful of his flesh, knocking it onto its back. He backed away, gasping in pain and putting a hand to his wound as Neil came up next to the zombie as it rose to its feet and put a bullet in the back of his head. Holstering his weapon as the thing fell to the floor lifelessly; he ran up to his comrade and helped to stop him falling to the ground.

"Shit! You OK?" he asked.

"N-no," replied Marvin through gritted teeth. "Does it look like I am?" Apologising profusely for asking such a silly question, Neil helped his friend over to the desk and propped him onto it so he wouldn't fall off. He grabbed for a can of first aid spray in a nearby opened first aid kit and went to apply it.

Marvin just battered away the can with his good arm. "Fuck that…we both know I'm done for…" His words had an element of truth to them: both of them had witnessed what had happened after someone got bitten by a zombie. They became one eventually; it was just a matter of time. But he wouldn't give up his friend's life so easily.

"Oh no, I'm not letting anymore of my friends become rotting freaks!" he replied, trying to apply the spray again. "It was only a light bite, your body might be able to fight this infection off-"

"No!" re-affirmed Marvin, knocking his friend's aim off again. "One of us…has to stay and lock the doors…looks like that responsibility falls to me…" Neil was silent for a long time, as he comprehended his friend's words.

"Fine," he replied. "But at least let me help stop the bleeding," he said firmly, spraying a fraction of the can onto Marvin's open wound, enough to stop him from bleeding to death in a short time, before he grabbed for some bandages and made Marvin hold it onto his wound. "OK, just stay here old friend, I'll go and search the station and get back as quickly as I can."

Marvin smiled at the mention of old friend. "Don't worry, I ain't going anywhere. Maybe they'll be time for one last drink before I have to go?"

"Of course," replied Neil back, drawing his side arm. "I'll be back soon. Just hold on!" With that, he turned and scaled the emergency ladder leading onto the 2nd floor balcony, before he made his way into the upper East Wing. As the sound of the door slamming echoed around the hall, Marvin sighed heavily and looked down at the floor.

"Looks like the end…for Marvin Branagh…"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Down in the parking lot, Ben Campbell stood next to the riot van currently filled with 5 other survivors he had taken along with him in his group, most of them anxious to get away. The place was empty, aside from them a few solitary abandoned police cruisers. The small group lead by Elliot Edwards had already vanished through the door leading to the cells and dog kennels, in yet another desperate attempt to escape this hell hole. Far as he knew, they were already dead. A riot van had been pushed in front of the door into the rear of the basement wing to prevent anyone or anything else from getting through either way, and to cover the escape of Elliot's group.

"I don't like this," muttered Roger from the driver's seat. "Someone should go and check up on them."

"For all we know they're already dead!" half-shouted a civilian survivor by the name of Cliff, a burly man in a leather jacket, white shirt and dark jeans. "No point any more of us joining them." A half-empty Mossberg shotgun lay at Cliff's feet.

"And what if they're in trouble?" asked Simon with a sneer. "Someone would have to go help them!" Pretty soon the whole debate fell into a petty argument, with words and insults being traded between trained officers and civilian alike. Soon, Ben grew tired of it all and cocked his shotgun to silence everyone present.

"I'll go look. If I'm not back soon, leave without me."

"Ben…!" shouted Roger, grabbing onto his colleague's arm. The younger man just shook himself free with a bit of effort.

"Just let me go! I'm not willing to leave anyone else behind," replied Ben with a determined look on his face. Roger only nodded in response, and Ben turned and began to make his way back to the first floor.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Neil Carlsen was banging on the door into the Chief's office, which remained locked tight. He knew fine well most of the people working under this roof didn't like the Chief much, but he'd at least have to try and get him to come along.

"Chief!" he bawled at the top of his voice. No response, but he was positive the Chief was in there, as no-one had seen him since the siege had first begun. Neil was beginning to lose his patience. "Come on Chief, it's now or never! Unless you fancy becoming a zombie's dinner?"

Still no response. Neil kicked the door in frustration.

"Suit yourself!" he shouted, before taking off running again, down the carpeted hallway and out into the wood-floored 2nd floor corridor. He still had the West Wing of the 2nd floor to scour, beginning with the library. He hoped that there was still someone worth saving in this god-forsaken place.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Back in the main hall of the R.P.D, Marvin Branagh was stood over the computer terminal at the front desk, his fingers gripping the blue magnetic key card he'd been given by Neil tightly. He was losing more and more blood with every minute, despite the use of the first aid spray, and he probably wouldn't last much longer at this rate. He'd have to make a very hard decision, one that would at least give those in the lower levels a chance to escape, and prevent the rest of the station from being over-run too quickly. But it would involve him being trapped behind with nothing to do but wait to die.

"Sorry guys," he said quietly, swiping the card through the card reader on the terminal. With a resounding click, the doors into the East and West wings were locked, preventing anyone from progressing any further without having to swipe the card through the reader once more. With that done, he made his way towards the door into the West office, still clutching at his wound.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ben Campbell dashed through the East Office, which looked untouched by the recent chaos, and into the East corridor, nearly slipping on the tiled surface in the process. He yanked on the door into the main hall, but it didn't budge. He pulled harder and harder, but it still didn't give. Someone must've activated the locks for the hall doors.

"Marvin! Neil!" he shouted through the door, waiting eagerly for a response. Nothing came, and he became quite agitated. "What the fuck's going on in there?" he shouted back, louder this time. There was still no response.

"For fuck's sake guys, come on! This isn't a good time to be fucking about!" he cried, threatening to make himself hoarse in the process. He began kicking at the door furiously, hurting his foot in the process. What the hell was going on in there? He had no intention of leaving anyone else behind, but it looked like fate wasn't on his side.

The shattering of glass from somewhere close by made him snap out of his thoughts. The zombies were breaking in elsewhere, and he couldn't afford to hang around much longer. He didn't want to leave his comrades behind either, but he told the others that he'd be back in 10 minutes and he didn't fancy being left behind to fend for himself. Offering a small prayer to those still left behind, he turned and made his way back towards the basement, through the Eastern Office into the hallway that contained the basement entrance.

In the hall that lead into the basement, he nearly came to a skidding halt, as more zombies piled in through the freshly-broken windows, gashing themselves horribly on the broken shards of glass. Many of them were rising to their feet and approaching the officer. Wasting no time, Ben made a mad dash for it, leaping over a pair of zombies struggling to get to their feet, then shoving another out of the way hard, sending it falling back out the window it had just crawled in through. A female zombie with filthy blonde hair and a torn red blouse lunged for him with outstretched arms, but he effortlessly side-stepped the lunge and struck her in the side of the face with his shotgun butt, knocking her down. He spun around to evade the grasp of a few more encroaching zombies, their nails barely scratching his bloody shirt.

A tall male zombie dressed in a reflective yellow jacket and hardhat stood between him and the stairs into the basement, but he shoulder-barged into the monster, knocking it backwards and forcing it to crack its head open on the banister, killing it instantly. With some room to spare, he turned to face the other creatures and fired a few shots into their ranks, felling a few of them and spraying blood and brain tissue over the floor and walls. With a satisfied smirk, he descended the stairs.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Out on the street, more gunshots could be heard, closely followed by the sound of breaking glass as a bloodied male zombie in an apron and jeans was thrown backwards through the plate-glass window of a deli store front, landing on its back and not moving again. A few seconds later, a bloodied and tired, but still alive, Dean Travers came through the same route, more moaning close on his tail. Having run into another load of zombies in the back ally, he'd cut through the deli in desperation and had to deal with the zombified owner.

"That's one way to issue a complaint," he muttered, stepping over the body. Glancing up, he saw that he was practically outside the station's back gate, and he was only a single iron gate away from getting inside. Nearly there, he thought, running over and opening the gate, practically throwing himself inside, as the few zombies in the street began to shuffle after him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Neil Carlsen had just swept the upper West Wing, finding nothing or no-one of importance. The S.T.A.R.S office had been inexplicably locked, and he didn't risk investigating any further, deterred by nearby moans and shuffling foot steps. He began to make his way back through the library, when he suddenly heard the sound of glass being shattered below him.

"Oh shit," he said aloud. The zombies were probably inside the East Wing now, and chances are the main doors wouldn't hold much longer either. They had to get out of there now. After pondering his choices for a few seconds, he went to wrench open the double doors onto the 2nd floor balcony. He was about to step through when-

BANG!

A sudden hot pain shot through Neil's stomach, and he froze on the spot. He touched his hand down to his stomach, feeling something warm and wet. He held his fingers up to his face to get a better look. It was blood. _His_ blood. He still comprehended this when someone shoved a pistol into his chest and fired twice more.

Neil fell back, landing on the wooden floor with a crack. Gazing up towards the ceiling, he began to cough up blood and reached up towards the heavens.

"J-Jane," he whispered, referring to his wife who was probably dead by now. "I'm s-sorry…" Then his eyes rolled back into his head and his eyelids closed.

Sergeant Neil Carlsen was dead.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dean had made his way through the rear parking lot into a small maintenance shed at the back of the station, and was currently stopping to catch his breath. His jacket was torn in over a dozen places from zombie nails and other sharp objects, and he was covered in sticky, congealed blood, but otherwise he was still in one piece. He sat on an old swivel chair, stretching his legs so that cramp wouldn't set in anytime soon. His weapons were lying on the table next to him, amongst other random clutter. His handgun had 7 rounds left in the current clip and he had two more in reserve, so he'd need to find some more ammo for it soon or risk running out, and that wasn't an option in this city. His shotgun was holding up better, as it had 6 shells left in the tube and about 16 in reserve, so he was ok for that too. But still, it wouldn't hurt to try and find some extra ammo for that too, or even another weapon, just to be on the safe side.

Holstering his handgun and pulling his shotgun around so it was in front of him, he reloaded it fully and cocked it, feeling a bit safer with the heavy weight in his hands. He set off once again, pausing to listen to the sound of an iron gate being smashed open from somewhere not too far behind him.

"Don't you freaks ever give up?" he sighed, leaving through the door opposite to the one he came in through.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ben Campbell threw open the door into the parking lot, panting and bending over as he gasped for air.

"Where are they?" asked Simon from nearby, clearly concerned. Ben gasped a few more times before replying.

"No idea," he said, making his way towards the van. "The doors into the hall are locked, and I can't get an answer from anyone. And to make matters worse, the zombies are inside now. We can't afford to waste anymore time." A few muttered curses went up from the assembled survivors as this new information sunk in.

"But it feels weird just leaving them behind," said one of the civilian survivors, a young woman wearing an R.P.D issue Kevlar vest and holding a Browning HP pistol. Ben believed that her name was Hannah.

"Either way, we don't have much of a choice," responded Ben, seating himself on the edge of the van interior. "We can't risk hanging around. Besides, I'm sure Marvin and Neil would want at least one of us to get out of here alive." There was an awkward silence before one of the uniformed officers, Max Turin, spoke up.

"Fine," he said, biting his lower lip, "I'm with you every step of the way Ben."

"That's appreciated," replied the blonde-haired officer. "Now let's get out of here." As he finished that sentence, another civilian survivor, an electrician, reappeared next to Ben, his face covered in grime and sweat.

"OK, I've changed the circuitry on the gate controls," he explained, turning towards the other survivors. "When we use it to open the gate, it'll close by itself after exactly a minute of being opened. It should help to stop anything else getting in from this way."

"That's good," replied Ben. "Right, let's saddle up and get going!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dean unloaded his shotgun into another zombie dog that charged at him, this one formerly a German Sheppard used as a sniffer dog by the police. It fell back, most of its head blown away by the point-blank shot. A few dogs were lurking in the area behind the station, feasting upon the remains of one of their handlers, but Dean had easily dealt with them. Stepping past their remains, he stepped up onto the station roof, where the helipad also was, currently empty. Where the chopper was at the moment, he didn't know. From here, he could look out across a good portion of the city. Things didn't look good. It was beginning to get dark, and it looked as though entire city blocks were on fire, glowing with an angry orange hue, the black smoke rising from the blazes only serving to add to the now opprsive atmosphere in the city. He turned back towards the roof.

His main attention was now drawn to another body lying at the base of the water tank in the far corner, his head lowered and his body and clothes covered in blood.

"Shit!" He ran over to the body and recognised it as Fred Conway, a relatively new recruit to the force, and a man known to be very reliable in any situation. Now, his whole body was covered in small rents and cuts that he recognised from earlier before: the corpse being feasted upon by those crazed crows had similar wounds. Looks like similar maddened birds had attacked Fred too. Dean bowed his head slightly in respect for the fallen officer, but he suddenly started hacking and coughing, spraying blood onto the ground in front of him. Dean nearly jumped out of his skin as he fell back in shock, panting for breath as he mentally scolded himself for being so jumpy.

"Shit Fred, you gave me a shock there!"

"How'd you think I felt when those birds attacked me?" snapped Fred, coughing hp more blood. He glanced up at Dean, showing that his left eye had been brutally pecked out, just leaving a huge, red, bloody swelling where the organ originally was. "Oh, it's you Dean…"

"Fred," said Dean, resting his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Is anyone else still alive in the station?"

"I'm sure there is," the other officer replied, gargling as he coughed up more bloody fluid. "I got stuck out here when I went to look for a way out, then those crows attacked me. There were at least 12 of us left, I know…I could hear the gunshots from here…"

"Thanks Fred," replied Dean. "Is there anything else I could-"

"No!" snapped the other officer suddenly. "I know I'm done for…I'm already feeling hungry…" Dean felt a chill run down his spine at that last remark: he knew what Fred meant by the 'hunger'. Then Fred was drawing his sidearm and holding it at his side. "There's nothing you can help me with, so just get going Dean…save yourself…"

"But-"

"Just go!" shouted Fred, agitated. "You can't help me now…it's better if at least one of us makes it out of here alive. Someone has to, no, _needs_ to survive this shit hole, and it ain't gonna be me…" Dean sighed in defeat and rose back to his feet.

"I'll see you in the next life then."

Fred coughed up a laugh. "Something tells me it'll still be a while till we meet…you're a good cop Dean, you'll live through this. Here, take these…I won't be needing them." He weakly removed a couple of full handgun magazines from his belt and slid them towards Dean's feet, who in turn stooped and picked up the extra ammo.

"I sure hope so," whispered Dean to himself as he left the scene, disappearing through the door into the station building itself. As he closed the door behind him, he heard a single gunshot, followed by deathly silence. He sighed heavily to himself and moved on down the corridor. It was empty and quiet, featuring little except from a line of windows to Dean's left, looking out over the street behind the station. Several lone zombies wandered about as a wrecked car burned.

He passed by the door that lead out onto the emergency stairway and into another hallway that was empty aside from a pair of dead police officers, lying face down in their own blood. Knowing he couldn't do anything else for them, he made his way into the well-furnished waiting room, complete with an old-fashioned typewriter laying on the side desk, a pair of green-leather sofas, and an old storage chest in the corner next to the door that lead out onto the main hall balcony. Before he left he rummaged through the chest, turning up little of value, apart from a half-empty box of shotgun shells, but every shot counted, so he took them along.

He stepped out onto the 2nd floor balcony, surveying the scene of carnage below. Dozens of zombie corpses were piled high across the once pristine floor, their blood staining everything a crimson shade. He shuddered, hoping that his comrades weren't among the bodies piled there. Slowly, he made his way towards the emergency ladder in the middle of the balcony and slid down it onto the first floor. Searching around the desk, he turned up very little of use, but the PC terminal was still switched on for some reason. The command 'Hall Side Doors: locked' was blinking on screen, so someone must've used the key card to lock the place down.

A sudden banging made him jump in his skin, and he looked back towards the main doors, which were now beginning to rattle as countless figures on the other side began to band upon them. Moaning rang through the air once more.

"Just great," he muttered to himself. He didn't have long now. Looking around, his gaze settled on the door into the West Office, and he made his way over to have a look inside, since the other doors into the rest of the station were currently locked and he didn't have the key card to open the doors again. Maybe he could find a spare one somewhere…

The door creaked open without any effort, and peering inside, the place was a mess. Tables were overturned to act as makeshift barricades near to him, while various papers and other random desk things were scattered about the floor haphazardly. It looked empty though, and he was stepping inside when he heard a moan. But this didn't belong to a zombie- it was a genuine human moan of pain.

Quickly stepping over towards the small office on the left side of the room, he peeked inside to find a rather surprising sight. Lieutenant Marvin Branagh was lying with his back to the wall, clutching at a recent bite wound to his left shoulder. He was sweating a lot, and looked like he was in intense agony. The wounded officer glanced up, and looked in complete shock to see a still-human survivor standing before him.

"D-Dean?" he said, coughing a little as he did so. "What the hell are you…doing here?"

"You didn't think I'd leave any of you guys behind to die, did you?" responded Dean, crouching down next to his colleague. "You think you're gonna be OK?"

"Doubt it," replied Marvin, matter-of-fact. "I've seen what happens to anyone who gets bitten by one of those freaks…"

"Oh no," replied Dean, reaching for the first aid spray in his side pack. "I'm not letting anyone else get killed!" Even though his colleague looked like he was on his last legs, Dean was unwilling to accept the facts, so focused was he on coming back here to help anyone he could. Marvin's hand suddenly clamped down on his arm.

"Forget it Dean! I know you got good intentions, but be logical for a minute! I'm only going to slow you down if you try and take me along, and even if we had access to decent medical supplies, we both know I can't be saved."

Dean was quiet as he let Marvin's little speech sink in. He was right. He knew from his knowledge of zombie movies that anyone bitten by a zombie became one soon after, and if he bought Marvin along, he was just endangering himself and anyone else he came across. He put away the first aid spray.

"OK," he sighed, "suit yourself. Is there anyone else left in this damned place?"

"Most of them were attempting to take a van out through the parking lot," replied Marvin, his eyes fluttering shut and opening quickly again. "If you hurry up, you might be able to catch up to them…And Neil's somewhere in the building too, looking for anyone left behind…be on the watch for him too."

"OK then," replied Dean, getting up to leave and checking his shotgun at the same time as well. "Sorry I couldn't do more for you."

"Forget it," laughed Marvin in reply. "Now get going Dean. Live!" Dean offered a nod to his former friend as he turned and left the way he'd come. With Dean gone, Marvin sighed deeply and allowed himself to pass out through severe blood loss.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Ready?" asked the electrician.

"Do it!" shouted Ben back in response.

The man threw the gate switch and the iron gate blocking the exit ramp out of the car park rose up with a grinding screech. Quickly, the man who opened it ran up to the van and pulled himself into the back, slamming the doors shut as he did so. Ben turned to Simon, who was sitting at the wheel.

"Just get us as far south as you can! We need to exploit this as much as we possibly can. And try not to run over too many zombies, ok? That might make us crash," he said breathlessly, looking over everyone else gathered in the van with them. "This is it people! It's now or never!"

The survivors looked at him with glances of fear and despair, but he could make out a tinge of hope on the faces of some of the civilians. As long as they held onto that, they'd come through, he was sure of it.

"Let's roll!" he shouted to Simon, as loudly as possible. The man didn't waste anymore time, putting his foot to the ground and tearing out of the lot as quickly as he could push the van to. A few zombies that were beginning to descend into the lot were quickly mown down and crushed to death beneath the vehicle's weight. The van pulled out of the lot at high speed and turned a sharp left, intending to go around the block and head south.

Behind it, the gate silently closed once more.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Back up on the 2nd floor balcony, Dean Travers noticed that the door into the library was slightly open.

"Hm?"

He was on his way to find an alternative way into the basement, as most of the doors in the main hall had been locked and he didn't have the key card to open them again. He was about to go back through the upper east wing when he saw the open door and decided to investigate. Down below, the main doors continued to buckle under the zombie assault from outside. It wouldn't be long before they were broken open once more.

Carefully, he gripped the doorknob of the library doors and threw the door open, stepping in with his Beretta raised. He saw nothing that could be considered a threat initially, but he glanced to the ground and came to a sudden halt.

"Jesus…Neil?" Neil Carlsen lay on the ground on his back, arms spread out to his side, and a huge amount of blood pooling beneath him. Dean didn't need to check: he could tell from here that the sergeant was dead. But it was how he was dead that perplexed him the most. He had a bullet wound in his stomach, and two in his torso. He didn't look like he'd become a zombie either, so why would someone shoot him dead? Unless they were so stricken by terror they shot him by mistake. Other morbid possibilities began to run through Dean's head. He stepped closer to the body to see if he could work out whom or what had killed him.

A sudden creaking of a floorboard from behind him in the corner made him react blindingly fast, spinning around with his Beretta raised to fire. He was met with another gun pointed back at him.

"Well, this is certainly a surprise. I thought all the prey was gone by now."

"What the…? Chief?"

It was indeed Chief Irons himself, now dressed in a more casual manner than when Dean last saw him on the TV, with a white shirt, and a grey sweater over that along with black dress trousers and brown loafers. He still had his I.D badge clipped onto his breast pocket, in case anyone visiting didn't know who he was. He was currently aiming a large-calibre handgun at one of his own officers, and he had a somewhat sadistic smile on his ugly features.

"Dean Travers, well, well, they always were talking about how promising you were," he said, taking a step towards the younger man. "For you to have survived this long is testament to your natural abilities indeed."

"What are you doing chief?" asked Dean, taking a step back towards the door that lead into the lounge.

"I'm just having some fun while I still can, before those monsters come for me!" half-shouted the chief in response, the weapon rattling in his hands. "Those bastards have ruined everything!"

_He's lost it,_ thought Dean. _He's lost it completely_. Yet he decided to play along for now, waiting for a suitable chance to make his escape.

"Who has?"

"Those monsters from Umbrella of course!" came the reply. "This is all their doing!"

Umbrella? This was their town; technically, some people said that they had more power than the mayor did. But the thought of Umbrella doing this to their main base of operations in the U.S? It didn't bear thinking about, unless you liked your conspiracy theories, of course. Since the incidents of July there had been some very sinister ruours about Umbrella's activities.

"Umbrella?" he asked rhetorically, in an attempt to keep the insane chief's mind off of shooting him dead.

"Yes! After everything I've done for them, right up to the July incidents!" replied the chief, half-screaming.

That last part made Dean's blood chill as the pieces fell into place. He'd heard rumours that the chief was corrupt and taking bribes; as it was the only way he could afford all those tacky 'art works' he had such a fascination with. There were also whispers that Umbrella had a hand in the July murders, but they were just whispers. What the chief had just said gave strength to those opinions now.

"So, you were on the take from Umbrella?" Dean now said, trying to wind the chief up now, in a rather risky ploy. "That would make a lot of sense, with a gutless pig like you as a police chief!"

A warning shot flew past his ear and smacked into the wall behind him. He didn't even flinch, as he didn't want to show any sign of weakness in front of this deluded madman.

"How dare you!" spat the chief, smoke billowing from his gun barrel. "This city needed me! If I hadn't have been appointed chaos would have consumed it all!"

"Well wake up, Rip Van", retorted Dean with a sneer, "This town's already gone to shit, so what makes you think you were useful in any way?"

He inched towards the door a little more.

"If Umbrella had kept their act together, this whole crisis could've been averted!" shouted the corrupt chief back, his anger clearly rising. "I kept my end of the bargain, and they couldn't guarantee this city's safety! The ignorant fools…" The chief exhaled deeply as he seemed to be calming down, then he got his composure back and aimed his weapon towards Dean's head. "But it doesn't matter now. If I'm doomed, I may as well take anyone else fortunate enough to survive with me!"

"Not if I can help it," replied Dean grimly, cocking the hammer on his Beretta as he spoke. Looked like this was going to be a very close call.

The sudden sound of the main doors being broken open bought their attentions away from one another. The zombies were inside once more.

"Can't you monsters give us some damned peace and quiet?!" roared the chief, turning back towards the doors onto the main balcony. Behind him, a door slammed shut, and he span back around to see that Dean Travers had vanished through the door into the 2nd floor lounge.

"DAMN YOU!" He was about to go storming off in pursuit when he heard more moaning from behind him, and he looked behind him to see that the formerly dead Neil Carlsen had risen to his feet once more and reached out hungrily towards his killer, his formerly brown eyes a soulless white.

"You're an annoyance even in death Neil," sneered the Chief as he took aim and fired.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dean leaned back against the wall and breathed deeply. That was a bit too close for call, he thought to himself, as moments before he'd escaped from being shot by the insane Chief Irons, who was raving about Umbrella destroying 'his city'. Apparently he couldn't handle the stress of the city being overun by undead flesh eaters and had just snapped, even going as far as to gun down his own officers. Chief Irons really was a demented bastard who didn't deserve to be chief of police.

"Fucking loon…"

He was currently in the 2nd floor statue corridor, leaning back against the wall next to a boarded-up door that would normally lead into the lounge, so he was forced to take the long route, past the S.T.A.R.S office. The corridor he was currently in had a pristine green marble floor, along with a set of statues at the far end, two small ones made of bronze and silver, along with a much larger one apparently made from bronze, depicting a mighty warrior holding aloft a pristine red jewel in its grasp. A few months ago, the Chief's secretary accidently bumped into one of those statues and moved it slightly, and when the chief found out he went absolutely beserk at her, but why, nobody knew. Then again, if the cheif was always nuts he didn't need a logical reason.

Dean shook his head clear of those thoughts and turned his attention back to his current sitution. Thanks to that encounter from before, there was no way he'd be able to catch Ben and the others before he left the station on time. His trip here had been a complete waste of time. But he couldn't give up there. He'd have to catch up to them again somehow, but first he had to get out of here: there was nothing left for him.

The door near to the statues was suddenly thrown open, and he caught a glimpse of the figure of Chief Irons passing into the room.

"Time to go!" he shouted, taking off at a sprint, as a shot chipped into the wall where his head was situated a few seconds before. He moved as fast as he could, the sound of the chief's firearm sounding behind him, but with the rounds barely missing him each time.

"Stand still!" shouted the homicidal chief in rage as he tried to chase after the fleeing officer, finding it hard to keep up due to his less-than-ideal figure.

Dean reached the landing and was half-way down the stairs when a rotten stench hit his nostrils.

"Oh no…"

More zombies were in the corridor below, most of them former police or S.W.A.T officers, along with a few civilians, just standing around staring at the space ahead of them. Dean's bones were hilled by the fact that he recognised some of the zombified cops standing there. He couldn't recall their names right now, but he still remembered their faces, either from the barricade massacre a few hours ago, or from day to day around the station. None of them seemed to have noticed him yet. But the footsteps behind him were closing in fast. He'd have to move quickly, or risk being shot in the back of the head. He looked around again, and his gaze settled on a small window opposite the foot of the stairs. He didn't have much of a choice.

"Here goes nothing", he muttered, running towards the small window. The first few zombies in the hall noticed him and began to approach, but by then he was already leaving the ground, his arms in front of him to protect his face as he collided with the glass head-on.

**A/N: Good old cliche' cliffhanger ending for you there. And as I said before, R + R please. Or I'll egg your house. :p**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: 7 Chapters in...and I have a grand total of 4 reviews. Go me. :p Anyway, I've probably said this before, if you're reading this, please leave a review you can, even if it's a negative one, as constructive criticism is approved. Anyhow, on with the story...**

Chapter 7: Unexpected Aid

**September 26****th****, 1908 hours**

The window easily shattered outwards into shards that cut into his jacket, but not his face luckily. He fell for about 8 feet and landed hard on his front, expelling a lungful of air as he made contact with the hard ground. Pain flared up and down the front of his body, but he had to ignore it and get moving. He was already pushing himself to his feet as the figure of Chief Irons appeared in the broken window and opened fire, his shots pinging off of the ground on either side of Dean's body. Once he was upright, he pushed himself into a run, dashing away from the station as fast as he could, the gunshots ringing out behind him. He didn't know where he was going, as long as it was safer than here.

Chief Irons stopped to reload, but when he looked back outside, the figure of Dean Travers had vanished from site into an open alleyway. All that remained were the few solitary zombies on the abandoned street.

"Damn!" he cursed, before taking his frustrations out on a few stupid zombies that were still at the far end of the corridor he was currently stood in. "Ah well, he's doomed anyhow," he scowled, lowering his weapon. "He'll meet his doom sooner or later."

The chief was about to make his way back upstairs, when he suddenly stopped and looked back down the corridor. Although he was in his office during most of the R.P.D siege, he had managed to discover that some of the officers that had been cut off from the others and were trapped within the Western Wing. That meant more potential for a hunt, so his fun wasn't completely ruined. He grinned to himself as he raised his weapon once again, heading into the West Wing corridor.

"There's still time for a good hunt…"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dean Travers reclined back against the wall and sunk down into a seated position, burying his hands in his face, fighting off the overwhelming urge to burst into tears. His trip back to the station had been a complete waste of time, as by the time he'd managed to get there most of the surviving officers were either dead, were zombies, or had already left the station to attempt an escape attempt. Ben was amongst them, and he didn't know if he was still alive somewhere or already dead.

There was Marvin though, who was still alive when Dean saw him, but close to death. He'd promised to come back for the wounded Lieutenant, but with that fat fuck Irons now roaming the station he didn't want to risk a return visit. Speaking of Irons, he suddenly remembered what the unstable chief had mentioned about Umbrella being to blame for destroying 'his town'. Were Umbrella somehow responsible for the state the town was in? That corporation practically owned the entire town; it was their main base of operations in the U.S.A. So why would they destroy all that by unleashing these 'zombies' on the town? Unless they had a more clandestine motive in mind other than medical and pharmaceutical developments…

He didn't have much time to ponder this as more moaning snapped him back to his senses. He got to his feet as a trio of zombies, all male, appeared from his right, their arms held out towards him as they moaned hungrily and shuffled after him. Right now, he was getting sick of the sight of these freaks and wanted nothing more than to snuff out as many of them as he possibly could. He couldn't kill every one of them, he knew that, but every one he put down made him feel a little better. Just a little.

"Come on then!" he shouted to them. "If you're hungry, then come and get it!"

He cocked and fired, tearing a huge rent into the lead zombie's torso, throwing it backwards and killing it instantly, while the second one was only clipped by the pellet spread and staggered back a couple of steps before resuming it's attack. The human didn't give his inhuman opponents a chance to get any closer and he fired twice more, blowing apart a rotten head in a spray of visceral crimson and bone fragments, and shattering the knees of the third and final zombie with a low-aimed blast. Even without the use of its legs, the creature continued to pull itself towards Dean at a slow pace, its broken fingers trying to get a decent grip upon the concrete ground. Dean showed no it mercy, striding up to the fallen zombie and smashing its head into a bloody pulp with a single stomp. He shook some of the blood off his foot before proceeding.

The alley turned a corner and opened out into a small courtyard, where a small group of zombies were gathered, a few of them feasting upon another dead body lying in front of a set of trash cans. Some of them noticed his presence and approached slowly, seemingly speeding up as they got closer to him.

Deciding to save some ammo for his powerful shotgun, he slung it over his shoulder and drew out his Beretta instead. Taking aim, he dropped 3 zombies in rapid succession with perfect headshots, their newly-dead bodies collapsing face first into the dirt as the others began to rise up from their meal and turned towards the intruder, stimulated by the sound of gunfire. They too followed the same fate as their fellow flesh-eaters, face down with a bullet lodged into their ugly faces. With them dealt with, Dean holstered his weapon and walked over to examine the dead body and former zombie meal. The torso and face had been so badly mauled it was impossible to figure out what gender the body originally was, or even any basic facial features. Those zombies got this person bad…

He noticed a customised M4A1 assault rifle lying next to the corpse, exhausted of all its ammo, and with numerous shell casings surrounding the scene. Looks like this person made a last stand here. Come to think of it, a few of the zombies that he'd just killed were pockmarked with bullet wounds across their bodies, such as from a rapid fire weapon. Flipping the body over with his foot, Dean was suddenly taken aback when he saw a familiar red and white symbol embossed on the back of the man's jacket. The Umbrella logo.

"What the hell?"

This was the same logo that he had seen countless times around Raccoon City, usually on the signs above the doors into various pharmacies and other Umbrella-owned services, along with the numerous advertising billboards across the city. But this logo was slightly different, in that it had a pair of swords crossed through the symbol. Dean looked over the corpse again, and now noticed it was wearing a black tactical vest normally issued to military personel, along with various ammunition pouches and even a bandolier of hand grenades yet to be used. He concluded this man must've been a soldier originally. But why would a random dead soldier have the Umbrella symbol on his gear?

He'd have to ponder that later, he thought, as he searched the body, turning up a few full clips of 9mm rounds, as the fallen soldier still carried a SIG Pro pistol that hadn't been drawn yet. He also carefully removed the man's grenade bandolier and clipped it around himself, as he thought they could come in useful for large groups of zombies and any potentially larger enemies he'd come across. When he was set, he turned and left, pushing through a gate opposite from where he'd come from.

Pressing on, he came across another massacre, where nearly a dozen dead zombies lay in a bloody heap in the centre of the passageway, most of them riddled with numerous bullet wounds, and a few with missing limbs and heads. Among the pile lay another fresh human victim, a man dressed in military gear similar to that last body he'd found. The Umbrella logo adorned his tactical vest, and he was still clutching a broken S.P.A.S 12 shotgun in his hands. This body wasn't as badly mauled as the last one, so Dean could make out that the man was wearing cream-coloured fatigue pants along with a green jacket under his tactical vest and black combat boots. Were there more of these mystery soldiers nearby? As he pondered this, dean stooped over the dead man and began to search through his pouches, turning up several un-used 12 gauge shells that he dropped into his sidepack. Like the last man, this guy also carried a still-holstered SIG Pro handgun, and Dean turned up 3 spare handgun magazines from his body. As he did, Dean began to notice the man's features a bit more.

He had short blonde hair, and a rather slight frame. A wound on his neck suggested that a zombie had taken a bite out of it, which was probably what killed the man. He looked young, barely 20 years old. Why the hell someone this young would be sent into this Necropolis made the mind boggle. Either way, he had to keep going. Once he was done with ransacking the corpse, he moved on, carefully stepping over the bodies, accidentally treading in some loose entrails with a squish.

"Ugh!" he shouted, quickly stepping out of it. He shook off some flecks of blood from his foot and quickly carried on, his Beretta drawn in front of him. As he moved further along the alleys, he came across more signs of recent battle, loose shell casings on the ground, bullet holes pock-marking the brick walls, spent shell casings from some form of shotgun, and even more dead zombies, many of them missing their heads. And blood: there was always plenty of blood, splattered up the walls and across the floor. He was hoping whoever had done this much damage wouldn't get freaked and ventilate him without a second thought if they came across each other.

He has walking into an area of town that was currently having construction work done, as half of the buildings had a frame of scaffolding around them, and materials such as piles of unused bricks, steel rods and tarpaulins folded up and ready to be used. Several shot-up corpses of construction worker zombies lay nearby as well, so he was getting closer to the trail of the mystery soldiers. Suddenly, his gaze settled upon an old paper map of the Uptown area of Raccoon City, pinned to the wall above an old dumpster.

"This'll help nicely," he thought, walking up to it and tearing it down to take a closer look. Someone had apparently torn it down and pinned it back repeatedly, as it had numerous small tears and a few fairly recent blood splotches on it, but it was still readable. Tracing a finger over it, he passed over the R.P.D station building, and followed it to the North, in the direction he had run from the building. He saw that he was only a few blocks away from the Raccoon Zoo, a fairly popular attraction for both the local and tourist kids alike. It could act as a potential shelter to him, but then again, it could be over-run with zombies like everywhere else, but still he had to try that possibility.

Gunfire from somewhere quite close by made him half-jump in surprise and shock. He quickly folded the map up and thrust it into his pocket.

"Jesus! Shoot the fuckers!"

"Fuck's sake Taylor, go for the fucking headshot!"

"Bring it you rotting fuckers!"

Shotgun blasts and rapid-fire, possibly from assault rifles, broke through the night. Carefully moving up to the corner of the alleyway he was currently occupying, Dean dared a peek around the corner into the street beyond.

About 40 feet away, a group of men, all of them dressed like the dead soldiers from earlier, were firing into another approaching throng of undead. There were 8 of them, and most of them were armed with M4A1 rifles, firing on full auto, tearing into the crowd like they were made of paper. A couple of them carried S.P.A.S 12 shotguns though, and one of them was armed with a massive M249 .50 calibre machine gun, which was being used to literally tear countless zombies into chunks, their blood spraying onto everything in range. Far as Dean could make out, they were all of varied ethnic backgrounds and skin colour, as he could make out a thick-set African-American man wearing a green beret at the centre of the group, and an Asian-looking man wearing a green bandana, his tactical vest over-loaded with grenades and other explosive devices.

A young man with mid-length blonde hair and wearing a woollen beanie hat kicked out at an approaching zombie dressed in a blood-soaked raincoat, before pulling a small dagger out from his tactical vest and tossing it into the creature's left eye, killing it instantly. After that, he grabbed the shoulder of the man in the beret and dragged him around so they could face each other.

"Boss, now would be a good time to order a fall-back manoeuvre!" he shouted as loud as possible.

"Fine," replied the other man, who was obviously the leader of this little well-armed group. He turned back towards the other soldiers and waved his arm. "Fall back now! We can't take all of them on at once! Lee! Give them something to regret!" A few seconds later, the Asian soldier unclipped something from his vest and threw it into the crowd as the other soldiers broke off and ran away out of sight, as a pair of small explosions, one after the other, suddenly consumed the crowd. Dean ducked back around the corner as blood and body parts showered down all over, and he narrowly missed a severed eyeball that bounced off of the ground by his left foot and was reduced to sludge.

After a few seconds, Dean stepped back out and saw the extent of the devastation, as the zombie crowd had been reduced to just a few hapless cadavers with their lower bodies blown or torn away, dragging themselves around on their arms, as the mangled remains of their former companions littered the street.

"So there's more of those soldiers?" thought Dean aloud, stepping out into the open street. "Still, all that firepower's no good when fighting a city full of zombies," he continued, making his way past the massacred flesh-eaters, snuffing a couple out by stamping on their skulls, and followed after the soldiers, his shotgun drawn and fully loaded. He guessed these men were heading for the Zoo as well, or at least the North West side of town. Hopefully he could join up with this group and they'd stand a better chance by staying together in a single well-armed group.

Or at least he hoped so, if they didn't mistake him for a zombie because of stress and trauma, and ventilate him at close range. He told himself to stop being so pessimistic, as he turned another corner onto a fairly sheltered street, complete with more steel scaffolding on both sides, giving anyone coming this way very little to move about amongst. Ahead of him, he could make out a couple of bodies lying in the middle of the street, and he cautiously approached, shotgun raised.

Above and behind him, something clicked on the brick of the buildings, like steel or maybe even bone. He stood deathly still for a couple of seconds, and then suddenly whirled around, his shotgun aimed up towards the roof of the buildings behind him. There was nothing there, just shadowy corners. As he breathed out slowly, he turned back around and continued on towards the bodies, his eyes scanning for any potential threats from above.

The first body was of another of those soldiers, killed by a wicked-looking slash mark across his torso, exposing his sternum and several of his ribs into the bargain. The massive amount of congealed blood pooling about the body showed that he'd bled out in seconds. He was clutching onto an empty SIG Pro handgun, rigor mortis having set in to prevent anyone from prising it from his cold, dead fingers. Moving on, Dean got a closer look at the second body, that of a civilian lying prostate on his back, and he gasped in shock.

The man's throat had been savagely torn into, and he could make out a mass of muscle and ruptured vessels visible within the wound. The man's face was the most disturbing aspect of the corpse though: his eyes were opened fully wide, his face set in an expression of pure terror and agony, his skin strangely pale. Despite that, he didn't look much like either body had been killed by zombies, as neither of them had bite marks on them.

_Click. _

That sound again, from somewhere above him and to his right. Slowly, he rose to his feet and readied his shotgun.

_Click. Click. Click. _

It was getting closer and more frequent now. Quick as he could muster, he spun around and aimed his shotgun towards the source of the noise. Without stopping to identify what his potential target was, he fired, the boom sounding much louder in the narrow street. The shot gave up a spray of green fluid from a shadowy, hunched figure that seemed to be hanging onto the wall. A god-awful shriek that threatened to deafen him into submission soon followed.

"What the hell?!" he asked.

A split second later, something huge and green dove out of the shadows and landed hard in the street, just past the second dead body. From what he could make out, Dean saw a huge, bulbous cockroach on steroids. As it turned to face him, he could pick out its other features, from its multiple legs sporting hooked sickle-like claws, the thick hairs covering its segmented thorax, and its face, a hideous bug-like face with round, green eyes and razor-sharp mandibles that were dripping with thick, slimy drool and blood. It also seemed to be lacking a lower jaw.

"What in God's name is this?!" blurted Dean loudly, slowly backing away from the thing as it clawed its way towards him slowly. Finally, he got enough of his co-ordination back to open fire. He cocked the shotgun, and the thing scuttled towards him at a faster pace, probably alerted by the sound of the weapon being readied. He fired into its thorax, spraying green blood onto the ground and walls, but the creature barely reacted to the shot, only stopped in its tracks momentarily and flinching for a split-second.

Dean had barely cocked his weapon again when the beast suddenly stood up on its hind legs and scurried in a haphazard manner towards him, flailing its arms in a rather comical manner and shrieking at the same time. Dean was totally taken aback by this sudden move and fell onto his back with a thud, the beast still bearing down on him with its multitude of claws and legs. With barely any time to react, he fired again, his weapon kicking high due to the recoil. Most of the buckshot caught the thing smack on in its throat, throwing it onto its back, while the spread shot tore through the joint on one of its front legs, and that was blown away in a small spray of green blood.

Wiping away the sweat forming on his forehead, Dean quickly got to his feet, seeing that the bug thing was now on its back, its remaining five legs flailing around in a pathetic attempt to right itself onto its feet. He saw that a huge rent had been blown through the monsters torso and throat regions, and green blood was still spurting from the open wounds. Determined to finish it off with his next attempt, Dean walked around until he had a clear shot at the beast's head, and took aim.

Cocking the weapon, he fired nearly point-blank into its ugly visage, and it exploded like a pus-filled balloon, spraying most of the area around it in green blood, scales and brain matter. Some of it splashed onto Dean's jeans, making him look down at the stain and almost balk at the hideous smell of the stuff. He'd hate to think what that could do if he got it in his eye. Carefully eyeing the monster's dead body, he reloaded his weapon. It had taken 4 shells to finally put it down. He'd hate to have the displeasure of running into anymore of these freaks…

"Jesus Christ, what the hell are you supposed to be?" he asked the mutilated giant bug's corpse, leaning up against a wall to catch his breath. Zombies and he understood, but where the hell were sickle-clawed monstrous bugs coming from?

_Click. Click. Click._

Shit.

He looked up to see another of those bug things clinging onto the wall about 12 feet away from him, staring straight through him as drool dripped from its mandibles as it sized up its next potential meal. Dean slowly raised his shotgun to aim at it, not taking his eyes off it, not even for a split second.

It let of a bone-jarring shriek and suddenly launched itself through the air towards the cop, who in turn blew it out of the sky with a well-aimed shotgun blast. The creature let off another shriek and fell to the ground hard, breaking something in the process, but in seconds it was on its feet and charging at him, flailing its claws much like the first one had. He fired twice more in quick succession, the second blast tearing into its torso and throwing it onto its back, where it thrashed around in pain before it finally stopped moving and bled out in a lake of green blood. He breathed out a huge sigh of relief, reaching for more shotgun shells to reload his weapon.

He turned around, and nearly died of shock as something huge tackled him forcefully into his stomach, throwing him to the floor and sending his shotgun and a handful of spare shells flying away from him. He gasped loudly, as the wind had been knocked out of him, and looked up to see yet another of those bugs towering over him, but this one was different from the others: its skin was a sickly green colour, and its body mass was more considerable compared to the first two. It also had two heads, both of them equipped with sharp mandibles and bulbous, bug eyes. He could see inside the purple-coloured recesses of its open mouths. It clawed towards him, and he instinctively kicked out, striking it in the left face and stunning it momentarily.

As he scampered backwards on his rear, he suddenly remembered he still had his sidearm on him and drew it, firing into the area between its necks. Blood spurted out from the wounds, but it didn't even slow down.

"Damn…" he muttered, feeling that his life was going to be over right there as it raised a hooked limb to strike out at him.

Suddenly, what sounded like the rattle of a fully-automatic firearm rang out, and the monster staggered backwards, blood spraying from countless wounds being torn into its hide. There was a slight break in the firing and the thing shrieked out and surged forward again, but one final burst exploded its right head and it slumped onto the ground front-first, blood pumping out of the severed neck joint for a couple more seconds. Breathing hard, Dean slowly got to his shaky feet and turned to see who had saved him from becoming a bug's dinner.

It was one of the soldiers from earlier, more specifically the blond-haired one wearing the beanie hat. He was holding a smoking M4A1 at that moment, and he swiftly loaded a fresh magazine into the weapon, tossing aside the empty clip casually. Once he was sure that it was safe, he slowly approached Dean, picking up the discarded shotgun by its stock as he did so.

"You all right sir?" he asked, in a rather concerned tone. Dean had to catch his breath a few times before he gave his reply.

"Yeah, I'm good: good for nearly being filleted alive by giant bugs." He eyed the corpse of the most recent kill warily, stepping away from it and stooping to pick up the spare shells he'd dropped when he was tackled. It looked dead, but he didn't fancy pushing his luck anymore. As he straightened up, his weapon was nearly shoved into his arms.

"I believe this is yours?" said the soldier, as Dean took the mighty weapon back and reloaded it with 12 gauge ammo. There was a somewhat awkward silence as Dean got his breath back before he finally spoke up.

"So what's your story?" he asked, "Are you the cavalry or something?"

"Something like that," replied the soldier, lowering his rifle towards the ground. "Myself and my comrades were sent in to rescue the civilians, but we weren't expecting this much…"

"Wait," said Dean, holding a hand up. "I kinda noticed that emblem on your back. Do you guys work for Umbrella?" The soldier turned to look down at his back.

"Oh forget that, we're not officially working with the company, we're just mercenaries, hired hands. We sign up to clear up Umbrella's mess, but it looks like we bit of more than we can chew with this one…"

"Sorry, cleaning up Umbrella's mess?" asked Dean, cutting off the other man mid-sentence. "You're saying Umbrella's got something to do with this whole shit fest?"

There was another long silence, as the man seemed to be thinking of a suitable answer to that question. To Dean, it looked like this was the proof to back up Chief Iron's claims from earlier.

Another jarring shriek made them both spin round with their weapons aimed down the alley, just as another two giant bug things came scuttling towards them along the ground.

"Jesus, how many more of these things are there?!" asked Dean rhetorically.

"Worry about that later!" shouted the soldier in response as he opened fire on the beasts, quickly followed by Dean. One of the things quivered as it received multiple shots to its front, before it let off another shriek and leapt onto the nearby wall and scurrying along it for a bit, before a close-range shotgun blast blew it off its perch and it landed on its head with a crack, dying instantly from the force of impact. The second one continued on its course, soaking up rifle rounds like they were shots from a water pistol, not a high-calibre weapon. Soon, it was within range to attack and lashed out with its hooked limbs, but luckily both men hopped back to avoid the wild swiping. A few seconds later, a combined barrage of rifle and shotgun ammo put it down on its back, most of its head and a few legs blown into mist.

Both men panted for breath and checked their weapons, with Dean turning to finish up his conversation with the unknown soldier. He suddenly caught something out of the corner of his eye.

"Look out!" he shouted, pointing to the wall behind his new companion. The man turned to see another giant bug monster, just as it propelled itself towards him, claws outstretched. But reacting with almost inhuman reflex, he leapt up and met the thing head on with a spinning roundhouse kick, his boot striking it hard right in its ugly face and throwing if off course so it collided hard with the unforgiving ground. Then even before it tried squirming back onto its feet, the man was stood over it, driving the barrel of his rifle into its face and firing a single round, blowing apart most of its skull.

The man wiped some green blood away from his leg as he turned back towards Dean.

"Nice move," said Dean in admiration.

"Thanks," came the reply. "Now where were we?"

Before anything else was said, the pounding of feet on the ground preceded several more figures, all dressed the same as the blonde-haired soldier, suddenly appear from around the corner and level their weapons, before stopping to take in the scene of carnage in the alley. A tall, lanky man with a black buzz-cut hair cut and some stubble walked up to one of the recently-dead bugs and gave it a kick with his boot.

"What the fuck are these?"

"Never mind that right now," shouted a powerful voice from somewhere in the back of the group. "Taylor, are you there?" A second later, a powerfully built figure with black skin and wearing a green beret atop his head appeared, an M4A1 slung over his shoulder and a look of concern on his face. He had dark-coloured eyes and his head was closely shaved.

"Yeah boss?" asked the blonde soldier, now known as Taylor asked, stepping forward.

"Next time you decide to run off like that," the other man said, stepping forward, "At least have the courtesy to wait up for us before you potentially get yourself killed!" Taylor lowered his head slightly.

"Sorry boss. I just didn't want to see anyone else get killed, that's all."

"Hey, that's fine," replied his superior. "But if you get yourself killed, how are we gonna cope with that?" he finished, half chuckling to himself. His gaze then settled on Dean. "And who are you?"

Dean cleared his throat and straightened himself up before replying. "Dean Travers, formerly of the Raccoon Police Department, before they were all killed. I was looking for some shelter before these bug things attacked me, then your man here turned up just in time to help me out."

"Ah I see. Well Taylor went running off when we heard the gunfire," replied the leader. "That was probably you fighting them off, wasn't it?"

"Could say that," replied Dean, looking around the assembled group of men before him. "So um, who are you guys supposed to be again?"

"We're with the Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Service," said a man holding a S.P.A.S 12 shotgun. "We get the duty of cleaning up Umbrella's mistakes."

"I'm Lieutenant Nicholas Johnson, leader of Delta Platoon," chimed in the beret-wearing man. "You've already met out scout, Taylor Drecker," he continued, indicating the blonde man who offered a little wave towards Dean. "And this is our Sniper, Robert Devlan," he finished, indicating the tall man with the black buzz cut. Dean now noticed the man had a telescopic sight affixed to the top of his modified M4A1.

"Yeah well," replied Dean, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Introductions are good and all, but something tells me that you know more than you're letting on about what's been happening in this city. Care to divulge further?"

Another piercing shriek made all of the assembled figures jump and aim all around them to determine where this new threat was.

"Maybe we should re-locate to somewhere a bit safer before all that?" said the Lieutenant, indicating down the street. Dean just nodded in response, and without a word the whole group took off at a jog down the road, just as a clicking sound began to follow them out of the alleyway.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Several blocks away, a solitary riot van trundled through the derelict streets of Raccoon City, dodging around wrecked car pile ups and solitary zombies wandering blindly about. In the driver's seat, Simon Jefferson of S.W.A.T was practically sweating bullets as he guided the large vehicle down the street, being careful not to crash into anything moving or otherwise, lest they pop a tyre, and if that happened they'd be up to their necks in shit. In the passenger seat, Ben Campbell watched the road in front of them, pointing out anything the elite officer might have missed.

"Just nice and slow, there's no rush," reassured Ben as he patted Simon's shoulder.

"Easy for you to say," muttered back Simon, turning the wheel to go around a lone zombie. He was a bit too slow though, and the former human ended up being dragged under the van's bulk, the sound of bones breaking reaching their ears as the van slightly rose up on one side and came down again. Ben grimaced slightly as he made his way back into the rear compartment.

The few remaining survivors from the R.P.D massacre sat huddled up against the walls of the van, some of them talking amongst one another in hushed voices, but others just stared straight ahead, among them the burly man in the leather jacket known as Cliff, his hand seemingly glued to the Mossberg shotgun propped up next to him. The grey-haired officer, Roger, looked up at Ben with heavy, sleep-deprived eyes, his look telling him much more than words could.

_We're screwed aren't we?_Roger seemed to be saying, _we're only a handful of people in a city filled with the walking dead, and it's only a matter of time before we're all dead, isn't it? _Ben had to push away those thoughts and remain optimistic, even if their chances were 1 in 10 million. If they didn't remain hopeful, it wouldn't help them well along the way.

"Look guys," he said, getting the attention of several pairs of eyes on him, "I know it's not looking good, but I assure you'll me and my colleagues will get you out of here to safety. You have my word on that."

"And how can you be so positive about that?" sneered a voice from the back of the compartment. It was that electrician who had rigged up the parking lot gate to close by itself. Ben mentally kicked himself for not knowing the man's name. He looked towards the man now and raised his finger towards him.

"Look, um…"

"Cal."

"Cal. I know it's a very grim outlook out there, but we can't just roll over and let fate win over. We have to at least make an effort, show the world that we're not dead yet."

"But the entire city's probably succumbed to whatever's creating those zombies," chipped in another voice, this one belonging to the young woman in the R.P.D vest. "And the army's cordoned off the city limits. What's the likelihood they'll even let us out if we make it that far?" Ben sighed deeply and thought for a while before he replied.

The truth was, he didn't know what to say. He wanted to say that they'd all be fine and they'd make it out of this hellhole in one piece, but with everything he'd seen so far, he couldn't make any guarantees or promises. And he didn't fancy lying to them, so he said what came to mind, which was the way he'd always been.

"We won't know until we at least take a chance. We've got nothing to lose, either way."

There was a long silence as those assembled looked at one another, seemingly waiting for one of them to bring up something else relevant to their survival, but no-one came forward to speak up. Even Cal the electrician seemed to agree with Ben's notion, and he slumped back into a seated position, staring at the wall next to him, seemingly intently enough to stare straight through it. Ben nodded slightly as the situation had been diffused, and turned back to go to the front compartment. As he went past Roger, he exchanged glances with the veteran officer, a glance that gave the younger officer a bit of hope. He smiled slightly as he worked himself into the front passenger seat and sat himself down.

_I just hope__ that we have a chance of getting out of here, _he thought, as he stared out at the empty streets ahead of them.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Wow. Sounds like you've been through quite a lot."

Dean and the other Umbrella soldiers had taken up refuge in an abandoned store, most of the men there either pacing around or lying on the floor and stretching their legs and arms out to stop cramp setting in. Devlan and a tall man with brown hair and a powerful physique armed with an M249 .50 machine gun stood at the front window which was mostly boarded up, looking for any potential threats to approach from outside. Dean, Nicholas (who insisted he be called Nick) and Taylor were stood talking in the back room, where cases of supplies such as ammo and medical goods were laid out, indicating they were thinking of using this area as a temporary base.

"Yeah," said Dean, after the man's reaction to his story about the events of the day so far. "So anyways, how many more of you are there?"

"We had 4 platoons," explained Nick, his beret set on the side of a nearby counter at the moment. "Alpha, Beta, Charlie and Delta. About 120 men in all, but as far as we know most of us were killed within minutes of touching down. We simply can't get in contact with anyone else from any of the other platoons."

"Damn…" replied Dean grimly.

"Our bosses clearly underestimated the danger of sending us down here," said Taylor chipping in. "They wanted us to extract any surviving civilians, but it looks like there's no-one left to extract at this rate. Everyone's turned into a zombie," he said solemnly, looking down at the floor.

"So why's Umbrella sending in troops in the first place?" asked Dean suddenly, wanting some answers that he nearly got from Taylor before giant bugs cut their conversation short.

"Well," said Nick as he raised his hands in an attempt to explain things to Dean clearly. "This might be a bit hard to swallow, but Umbrella are, in a way, responsible for this whole mess."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Umbrella? But they're the reason this town's been doing so well lately."

"Well that's just the public face of Umbrella," said Taylor, chipping in, removing his hat and running a hand through his hair. "They've been doing research into B.O.W's for a long time."

"B.O.W's?" asked Dean, furrowing his brow.

"Biological Organic Weapons," explained Nick. "Basically, living organisms used as weapons. And central to their research is a virus that turns humans into zombies. You remember the murders back in July?"

"How can I forget?" replied Dean. "It was all over the headlines for weeks Hell, I even attended a few of the murder scenes."

"Those murders were the result of an outbreak of this so-called virus. And since then, it's been gradually working its way into the city. Until…well, you see for yourself."

"A zombie virus?" asked Dean, almost in disbelief. "Well a virus being responsible would explain why everyone was turning so fast. But why would Umbrella have a zombie virus in the first place?"

"Because they're greedy bastards," spat Nick, putting his beret back on. "But in the end, we're just the boys who wipe the shit up. We don't get told the whole story. Why would we? We're expected to all die on every mission we go on." After that little tirade, he stormed back into the main store area.

Taylor and Dean followed him back, where other U.B.C.S soldiers nodded in acknowledgement. A soldier with Asian features and wearing a green bandana and with his body over-loaded with grenades and other explosives approached Taylor and held his hand up, and Taylor replied with a high-five.

"Nice to see you back in one piece, Tay," said the Asian man, his voice holding a trace of his accent.

"You really think a few over-grown cockroaches would get the better of me?" Taylor replied in a cocky manner. "Oh, by the way Dean, this is our demolitions expert Lee," he said, giving the man now known as Lee a slap on the back. "You need something blown sky-high, come see Lee and he'll set you up for life!"

"Oh you're too kind!" replied Lee with a smile.

"Oh you're good," replied Dean with a smirk. "I saw some of your handiwork earlier. Give 'em something to regret?"

"Oh, so you were stalking us then?" asked Taylor in a joking manner.

"Well I wanted to make sure that you guys didn't mistake me for a zombie and ventilate me on sight," replied Dean with a smirk. There was a bit of laughter before Nick suddenly called them over with a wave of his hand. The whole group gathered around the wooden table with a map of Raccoon City lay open upon it. A few key locations were circled with red marker pen.

"OK ladies, listen up!" half-shouted the Lieutenant. "Our designated extraction point is at the St. Michael's Clock Tower to the North of our position, on Raccoon Street. Our orders state that once we've rung the tower bell, the extraction chopper will fly in to take us out of this city. But due to the amount of damage the city's in most of the streets are blocked off by fire or other damage."

"So we might have to take the scenic route," chimed in Taylor, pointing towards an area on the map near to the clock tower. "Bowler Avenue would be the most direct path to take, so we'll attempt to take that route, but if that doesn't work out we could try the back alleyways instead."

A mumbling went up from the assembled troops.

"Actually," said Dean suddenly, intervening. Several pairs of eyes fixed on him. "I've seen that the largest concentrations of zombies in this city tend to be found on the main streets and roads. We'd be a lot better off if we stuck to the smaller roads and streets." There was long silence before Nick finally broke it.

"Well you do have the home advantage Dean, I'm sure it'd be wise following your instincts," he said, putting his beret back upon his head, making sure that it was aligned perfectly. A few of the other mercenaries just grumbled and shook their heads, not content with being shown the best route by a lowly civilian.

"So when do we move out?" asked a man in his 30's with a large pack on his back and a white circle with a red cross intersecting it on his sleeve. Probably a field medic, thought Dean. His voice also had a trace of British in it, and he had a Union Jack stuck to his left shoulder, indicating he was a Brit.

"In 30 minutes," said Nick, glancing at his watch. "Let's get some rest before then, all right?" A chorus of agreements went up from within the store, before everyone dispersed in their own direction. Dean sat himself down atop an abandoned cardboard box, and rubbed his stomach as it grumbled. Reaching into his side pack, he pulled out a candy bar, ripped off the wrapping and devoured it in seconds, so long since he'd eaten, and also since he'd used a lot of energy since. Having finished that one off, he'd quickly reached for another one.

"Hold on, you'd best not eat all those at once," said a familiar British accent. He looked up to see the field medic sitting down on a box just opposite him. Closer up, he could see that the man had blue eyes, along with shortly-cropped brown hair and a clean-shaven appearance. "Here," he said, offering him what looked like a ration pack. Reluctantly, Dean took out something from the package that was wrapped in paper. It looked like a sandwich, but when he bit into it, he grimaced slightly.

"What the hell is this?!" he asked.

"Military-grade rations," the Brit replied. "It's just food high in carbohydrates and calories, designed to just state your hunger. Not much, but it keeps you going at least."

"Well to be honest," admitted Dean, lowering his head, "I might get to like this more than my partner's cooking skills." The medic barely suppressed a massive grin.

"That bad huh?"

"Yep," nodded Dean, taking another bite from the ration meal. "I keep thinking he'll watch the cookery channel, but he never gets the hint." The medic chuckled again, as he passed Dean a water canteen.

"Oh, where are my manners? I'm William Daniels, but everyone calls me Will. A pleasure to make your acquaintance," he said, offering Dean a gloved hand to shake. The cop graciously accepted the hand and shook it firmly, in between taking a swig from the canteen. The water was lukewarm, but it still did the trick at quenching his dry throat.

"Dean Travers, R.P.D. Or rather, I used to be. Looks like I might be the only one left now due to…current events."

"Geez, sorry to hear that," replied the medic. "Wish there was something I could say to help you out."

"Forget it," said Dean. "No-one could've seen this coming."

"Uh, guys, we got company!" shouted Devlan from his place at the window. "We got more of those things coming, boss!" Nick and Taylor ran over to the window to have a look outside.

"Here we go again," said Dean, throwing the empty ration pack aside and walking up the window to have a look outside.

From the right, another crowd of zombies were approaching, shambling towards their current position in a slow but relentless manner. There were at least 20 from what they could see, but many more were bringing up behind the initial group.

"Just great," muttered Taylor, as Nick readied his M4.

"OK guys, mount up and let's go! Leave behind anything that'll slow us down!" he shouted to his men, as they scattered in all directions to gather up supplies and ammunition. Nick then turned back towards Dean and patted a big hand on his shoulder. "Once we're out of here, I trust you to lead the way, ok? It's not often I do this, but for once I'm breaking protocol to help all of us out Don't let the others make you think otherwise."

"Fine," replied Dean, cocking his shotgun for effect. "If I save even one person from this place, it'd make me a much happier man."

Nick gave a grin and turned back towards the door.

"Joel!"

"Yes boss?" shouted back the soldier with the M249.

"I want you to lead our breakout. Shred 'em!"

"Sure thing, boss," replied Joel, grinning.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They shuffled towards the abandoned store, some of them dragging broken or twisted limbs behind them. They could sense that there were survivors inside, ripe for being feasted upon. Ever since the virus had infected them, they were being consumed by an unending hunger for still-living human flesh, a hunger that would drive them to the ends of the earth if needs be. Unbeknownst to them though, the virus in their system had made them hungry in order to spread its evil influence as far as possible, to consume as many lives as possible.

But they didn't care. They only wanted to feed. That's all that mattered to them now.

A second later, the door crashed open and a man holding a large machine gun charged out, levelling his gun at them. But they knew no fear in their new state, and many of them moaned loudly, extending their arms towards the man and shambling towards him at a faster pace.

The man fired his huge weapon and it roared, tearing apart several infected citizens in a shower of crimson, but more were always there to plug the gaps in the crowd. One man wearing a blood-stained white shirt was struck a few times in the torso and was literally blown apart, left as nothing but a pair of legs that slumped to the floor lifelessly. A middle-aged woman still in her nightdress took a bullet directly between the eyes and her face exploded into crimson. The armed man continued firing for several more seconds, scything through their ranks like he was harvesting corn, before he stopped and shouted something over his shoulder.

"Go! Go! Go!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They stormed out of the store, weapons raised and covering each other in pairs, to ensure there wouldn't be an ambush or surprise attack of any kind. Dean, sticking close to Taylor and Nick, looked over to see Joel making an almighty mess of the zombies approaching them from afar. For his lack of subtlety, he had to admire the man's sheer firepower. He didn't kill the zombies so much as put them through the blender.

"Joel!" shouted Taylor, as the machine gunner finally lowered his weapon and took off after the rest of the group, a smirk plastering his face. They sprinted away down the road, towards where Bowler Avenue was located. Soon, they'd left behind the zombie pursuers, but a few lone ones were still wandering about the street, easily avoided or dealt with via accurate headshots. Now that Dean was with these other well-armed survivors, he was positive that they'd be able to escape this damned place easier. Along the way, he hoped they could find his friend Ben, and then they'd all escape this place together.

Or so he hoped.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: ZOMG 2 UPDATES IN AS MAY DAYS :p Seriously though, I've had a few of these chapters practically finished for weeks, hence the quick updates. Anyways, this chapter's for you, Peanuckle. ;D **

Chapter 8: Nemesis

**September ****26****th****, 2114 hours**

After a few minutes they came up to the end of Bowler Avenue. Sure enough, the street was chocked full of undead, probably hundreds of them at once, just milling around, bumping into one another or swaying slowly on the spot, just waiting for something edible to come their way. Luckily, they hadn't noticed the group of humans currently crouched on the street corner about 20 feet away from them, watching carefully. 

"Looks like you were right after all," said Nick looking at Dean next to him. "Come on guys, let's shake a leg." 

Dean smiled to himself as the group aligned themselves into a line of bodies, Joel at the front with his huge M249 raised to bear, and Taylor and Dean bringing up the rear, looking for any nearby threats trying to sneak up on them. The line snaked away from the street entrance, and into a nearby open alleyway, that was thankfully free of anything that wanted to eat their faces off. 

"So what's your story?" asked Dean suddenly as they moved down the abandoned passageway. 

"What?" asked Taylor, just concentrating on the area behind the rest of the group, using his rifle to sweep the immediate area for any potential threats. 

"As in, how'd you come to be in the U.B.C.S?" continued Dean. "I'm sure you all have a story to tell? As in how Umbrella chooses you all in the first place?" 

"Well," started Taylor, poking his rifle barrel into a dark doorway. "I was in the Green Berets, as a scout naturally. I kinda had a natural talent for that sort of thing. Then about this time last year I was approached by some guys in suits who said they worked for Umbrella, and they offered me a place in their paramilitary unit. They said I'd be earning a hell of a lot for doing their work. So naturally I said yes." 

"That's it?" said Dean. "Sounds a bit too simple to me." Taylor just gave him a sideways glare.

"Most of us used to be soldiers or in other military units, hence our combat abilities," continued Taylor. "We agreed to join Umbrella because we needed the money or had nothing better to do, and now look where we are. Some of us have been in the U.B.C.S for years." 

"Really?" asked Dean. "So stuff like this has happened before? Other outbreaks?" 

"Yeah," said Devlan, cutting in suddenly from behind the two. "This time last year we were called out to some place in Siberia, where Umbrella were doing secret research. We were told they'd been a viral outbreak there, just like here, and all we found there was death and destruction." As he finished his little story, he appeared to look away into the distance and fell silent, apparently remembering what had happened during that incident. "There were more of them around every corner, no matter how many of them we killed."

"You'd think Umbrella would get their act together long enough to design shatter-proof test tubes," murmured another voice from ahead of them. 

"Damn," muttered Dean to himself. He'd thought it'd be best not to bring up the past anymore with these guys, as it was a very touchy issue with them. It made him think of Umbrella once again. If some of the U.B.C.S had been in situations like this before, how long had Umbrella been carrying out research with this virus Nick and Taylor had told him about? How long had they been playing with fire, and was something of this scale inevitable?

"Boss, we got something here!" shouted a voice from ahead. 

"What is it?" asked Nick urgently. 

"You'd best see for yourself," came the solemn reply. Looking confused at one another, the U.B.C.S troops followed the source of the noise, appearing in a wide open space, a car park to be exact. 

"Damn…" muttered someone from behind Dean, but he couldn't pin-point who it was, so fixated was he on the grisly scene before him. 

The space was scattered with the corpses of at least 7 zombies, all of them lying amongst several parked cars or face down on the concrete ground. Weird thing was that none of them had been killed with conventional means. Most of them had huge holes in their bodies, not caused by weapon fire but through what looked like huge fists and feet. Others appeared to have had their necks snapped by some other manner as well, almost as if someone had just used sheer brute strength to kill these monsters. 

"What the hell?" asked Lee loudly. 

"Never mind that, come look at this!" half-shouted Taylor as he vanished around behind a large blue van. Dean came around the vehicle to see what all the fuss was about, along with several other U.B.C.S members into the bargain. He could see that something huge and metallic had crashed down right on top of a parked car, completely crumpling it into oblivion. To Dean's mind it reminded him of some kind of drop-pod, as the front of the thing was wide open, and he could make out 2 more sheets of deep red metal lying in other areas of the car park, like whatever was originally inside the pod had broken out and was now running amok somewhere. Whatever that 'thing' was, he'd rather not run into it. 

Taylor was rooting through the interior of the structure, as the others crowded around trying to get a look at whatever was inside. 

"Looks like a load of life-support systems, boss!" shouted back Taylor. "I'm guessing something alive was being kept inside here." The word 'alive' made chills run down the spine of more than one of the people assembled there. Some of them began to shift from their positions, looking around cautiously or training their weapons on nearby alleyway openings or the exit onto a nearby street. 

A short distance away, Devlan came across something that looked like a large storage crate, left wide open. His eyes widened in surprise. 

"Uh…guys! You might want to see this!" Soon, a small group gathered around Devlan's find. It was practically empty, but they could still clearly see a large indentation carved into a body of grey foam. It was pretty large, but anyone with a passing knowledge of military weaponry could tell you the outline belonged to a Stinger SAM missile launcher, hardware normally used to shoot down helicopters and other aerial vehicles. Pretty heavy ordinance. There was also a small square indentation within the box as well, possibly for the weapon's ammunition. 

"Who was this for?" asked Lee, to no-one in particular. "Could it be for us?"

"No," replied Nick. "The only equipment we get is what we're sent in with." There was another uneasy silence, before Nick finally spoke up once more, his commanding voice ringing out across the area. 

"OK people, let's just stay calm now. Taylor, Devlan?"

"Yes boss!" they both cried in unison, stepping forward. 

"Have a look around the area, make sure it's safe. If you see anything, and I mean _anything _at all, get back here post-haste, understood?"

They both threw up a salute before Taylor led Devlan away down a nearby alleyway.

"The rest of you, keep your guard up!" urged Nick as he turned around to face the others.

Once the scout and the sniper had disappeared from sight, the other mercs began to pace around nervously, or stopped to check their supplies and equipment. Dean sat himself down on the hood of a nearby blue car and began to check his ammo count. He had plenty of handgun magazines for his sidearm, but he only had 5 spare shells left for his shotgun, along with having it fully loaded at the moment. Looking about, his gaze settled on a blonde-haired man walking past, who was holding a S.P.A.S 12 shotgun at his side. A patch on his chest read 'Benson'. 

"Excuse me, Benson?"

"Yeah?" asked the merc, turning towards Dean. 

"You got any spare 12 gauges on you? Cause I'm running a little dry," he explained, showing him the handful of shells. The man was silent for a while before he began to dig around inside his pockets and pouches. 

"Yeah sure, how many do you need?"

"How many could you spare?" 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They stepped over another pair of bodies, and like the ones before these unfortunate souls had been clubbed to death with sheer brute force, their faces smashed (even further) beyond recognition. 

"Who or what the hell got to those zombies?" asked Devlan to no-one, as Taylor was a few steps ahead of him, scouting out the alleyway ahead of them. 

"Could you talk any louder?" hissed Taylor, in an effort to make his compatriot shut up. The sniper just growled in a low tone and shook his head slowly. The place appeared safe on initial glance, as something had come along and cleared out the zombies for them, but they just hoped whatever it was wasn't still in the area. Soon they could see where the alley came to a corner about 50 feet ahead of them, with dark alcoves on either side of them. 

Taylor suddenly stopped and bought his hand up, nearly making Devlan walk into his back. 

"Now what!" spat the sniper, clearly freaked out to the extreme. 

"Shut up!" snarled Taylor, getting in his comrade's face. "You hear that?" Devlan fell silent, but he couldn't make anything out. But he strained his hearing; he could make out what sounded like small booming noises, like the footsteps of something rather large…

"That can't be good…" A second later, the two of them quickly took up opposite positions in the shadowy alcoves of the alleyway without a word, aiming down towards the corner ahead of them. Devlan could feel his hands getting clammy around the grip of his rifle, but he had to maintain his perfect stance and aim down the passage, so he could react instantly to whatever came around that corner. 

More time passed, and the booming noises were getting closer and closer to their position. The suspense was killing them both, specifically Taylor. Then, it rounded the corner ahead of them. 

Both of them stopped and balked when they could see it clearly in front of them. Somehow, legions of the undead, giant mutant bugs, and anything else Umbrella could create couldn't match the terrifying appearance of this new monstrosity before them. 

"What the fuck?" asked Taylor silently. 

It was huge, well over 8 feet tall, and solidly built, its fists the size of bowling balls. Its whole body was coated in black material, aside from its fingers and face, the skin similar-looking to a zombie's pallor, but with a more ash tone to it. Its face appeared to be stapled together, with a long line of stitches and steel staples running down the right side of its face, leaving it with just a single, white, soulless eye. Large, purple tendrils were sprouting out of its right shoulder, one of them coiling around its wrist like a snake ready to strike. Its mouth was perhaps the most terrifying aspect of its visage though, as it lacked lips, just revealing a demented grin of huge fang-like teeth that terrified the hell out of Taylor. In its left hand it held onto a Stinger missile launcher, easily wielding a weapon that would require both hands for a normal man to lift or even fire. The creature looked about a little before it let out a low but deadly growl that sent shivers down the spines of the two men. 

"What in God's name…?" asked Taylor. 

"Nemesis…" whispered Devlan, visibly shaking in terror. 

"What?" asked his companion. 

"I thought it was just make-believe, a myth created by the guys at the barracks. But it's real!" Down the passage, the beast suddenly started striding towards where the two mercenaries were hiding, flexing its left hand as if in anticipation of a kill. Suddenly, it stopped dead about 30 feet away from them and glared straight towards where Devlan was crouched in his shadowy alcove. The sniper froze. 

_S__hit. _

The beast growled again and raised its mighty weapon onto its shoulder, a dry click sounding as it loaded a round into the weapon tube. In response, the sniper raised his own weapon and sighted over the monster's ugly face. 

"No, don't!" hissed Taylor. Too late, as Devlan's rifle cracked loudly, the sound amplified within the narrow alleyway. Blood burst from the monster's face and its aim was knocked off-kilter, the rocket fired upwards into the upper floor of one of the building's that flanked the alley, debris raining down in every possible direction. Taylor dived out of cover just in time to avoid being crushed under a hail of bricks. 

"You fucking idiot!" he shouted to Devlan, who was still rooted to his spot, looking terrified. "You could've killed both of us!" Then he looked back towards the monster, which had already recovered from the head shot, no trace of any wound on its ugly face to begin with. It was looking directly at Taylor, and it growled once more, louder than before, sounding more pissed off than anything.

"Oh fuck." 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The crack of a rifle, closely followed by a sudden explosion, made the men assembled on the lot jump in shock and surprise. Many of them closed ranks and formed a circle, their rifles aimed out in all directions, as Nick frantically shouted into his radio mouthpiece. 

"Taylor! Roger! What the hell's going on back there? Respond, over!" The only response he got was fractured static, followed by a few short bursts of rifle fire. What the hell had they gotten into now? 

Originally perched upon the hood of a blue sedan, Dean had risen to his feet along with the merc who'd helpfully handed him some spare ammunition for his shotgun, and they had both backed up towards the ring of guns in the middle of the lot.

"The hell's going on?" cried Benson, cocking his weapon. Another burst of rifle fire rang out from somewhere nearby. 

"Quick! Shoot the fucker!" cried Devlan from out of sight. Rapid gunfire followed. 

"It's like shooting a brick wall man!" shouted back Taylor, sounding desperate.

"GRRRAAAGGGHHH!"

That demonic roar made everyone's blood run cold and freeze up; their weapon's suddenly centring on the gate the scout and the sniper had left through minutes before. They'd been through a lot since landing in Raccoon City, but the sound that thing had made suggested they were about to face much worse very soon. 

"What the fuck was that…?" wondered Dean as he took up a position near the back of well-armed survivors. A second later, the gate was thrown forcefully open and the two mercenaries fell through, panting for their lives. They began to sprint back towards the rest of their unit, but had barely made it 10 feet when the gate behind them was smashed off its hinges and something huge and dressed in black sprinted through the opening and grabbed Devlan by the back of his jacket, lifting him up and tossing him across the lot like he was a rag doll. The sniper cried out, right before he smashed spine-first into a windscreen, shattering the glass and not moving afterwards. 

"Rob!" cried Taylor as he nearly ran into Nick at full speed. 

Everyone else was too fixated on the new monster before them to notice this event. Its insane demonic grin, huge stature and single white eyeball terrified them all down to the core, as did the fact it was carrying a Stinger Missile launcher in a single hand with incredible ease. Throwing its head back, it let out another monstrous roar, before it began to slowly stride towards them. 

"Don't stare, shoot the fucking thing!" cried out Nick, aiming his rifle at the thing's torso. 

Several rifles fired simultaneously, and blood sprayed out from the monster's body as the high-calibre rounds punched through its clothing. It barely flinched, even with so many rounds hitting it in such a short period of time, some of them directly into its ugly face. 

"No fucking way…" thought Dean as he added his own shots into the mix, one of them catching the monster in the face, but it still didn't flinch. One merc with an M203 grenade launcher attached underneath his rifle planted his foot into the floor and launched a whistling grenade at the beast. The round sailed through the air until it was about 2 feet away, but the monster suddenly side-stepped the projectile with terrifying ease and speed, the round slamming into the gate it had emerged from instead and obliterating it in a shower of flames. 

"Oh crap!" blurted the merc responsible as he hurried to reload his launcher. In response, the creature raised its own weapon and loaded a round with a dry click. 

"Oh shit, he's gonna fire!" cried out Taylor. "Fucking move!"

Dean didn't need to be told twice, throwing himself into cover behind that blue sedan he was sitting at earlier, along with Benson. The rocket was launched with a high-pitched whistle, and it sailed through the air, past the Umbrella mercs who had thrown themselves into any cover they could find, and collided head-first with a white van, swallowing the vehicle in a blossom of flame. Dean grunted in exertion as he got to his feet, sparks and scrap metal raining down around him. Looking up, he saw the beast was once again striding towards the mercenaries, who were still busy trying to regain their bearings as it bore down upon them. Taylor and Nick were the only ones fighting back at the moment, firing on full auto right up until their rifles clicked on empty and they swore very loudly while reaching for fresh magazines. 

"Oh no you don't!" Dean half-shouted, taking aim at the monster's head and pulling the trigger. The buckshot smacked into the side of its head, knocking it to the side and spraying even more blood into the air. It's attention diverted, it growled and turned towards him, its eye flashing in anger. He cocked the weapon and fired a few more times, catching the beast in the torso and gut, spraying more blood and causing it to stumble slightly. 

Suddenly, it roared and charged at the R.P.D cop with the speed of a cheetah, covering several feet with each massive step it took. The Stinger launcher didn't slow it down either. 

"Crap!" he shouted, turning and running away in the opposite direction, but the thing was rapidly gaining ground. He'd made it about 15 feet when he heard a grunt behind him and he instinctively dropped down and rolled forward, feeling a whoosh of air as the monster's huge weapon was swung at him like a club. It collided with the side of a parked car, the sheer force of the blow literally flipping the heavy vehicle onto its roof and leaving a huge dent in its side. Dean hated to think what would have happened if that had collided with his face. Quickly rolling onto his back, he tried to get to his feet when a horrifying grin filled his vision and a huge hand clamped down around his throat. 

Before he could realise what had happened, he was plucked off of the ground like he were nothing and tossed across the lot as Devlan had been a short while before, bouncing off of the roof of another car and rolling off to land on the concrete ground hard. He coughed as intense pain flared up and down the left side of his body. 

_Shit, that thing's fast…_

Rolling over, he saw the one-eyed menace approaching him once more, that malevolent grin plastered across its features, flexing its right hand a few times as it approached. Dean reached out, but his shotgun was nowhere to be seen, and he doubted his Beretta would do much to this beast, probably just irritate it a bit. He scrambled backwards, but the thing was closing in fast, reaching its free hand out towards him.

CRACK! 

Blood exploded from the monster's chest and it grunted in surprise and took a little step backwards. Dean looked up and behind him to see Robert Devlan standing above him with his rifle aimed towards the beast, bleeding from a huge cut on his left temple. He looked absolutely furious. 

"Dean, you all right?" he shouted, firing another shot. More blood sprayed from one-eye's face onto the ground near to Dean's feet. 

"Oh yeah," replied Dean sarcastically, getting to his feet with a groan. "Aside from one-eye nearly killing me here, I'm just great!" Holding onto his side, he made his way over to the mercenary sniper, while watching the beast as it roared once more and tried to raise its missile launcher to fire again. A pair of figures appeared behind the beast and a booming sound rang out. Its body convulsed constantly and it suddenly fell face-first onto the ground, blood spraying from its back. Standing over it were Joel and Benson, both of their weapons smoking from recent gunfire. The beast tried to rise up again, a strange purple fluid pouring out of a great rent in its shoulder, but Benson planted his foot into the middle of its back and fired one last shot into the back of its skull, and it finally lay still. 

"And stay down, fucker!" shouted the shotgunner, reloading his weapon. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief as they stared down at the beast that nearly killed at least half of them by itself, now put down with the use of serious firepower. Nick and Taylor approached Devlan and Dean, the latter holding onto a S.P.A.S 12 shotgun by the stock. 

"I think this is yours?" he asked, thrusting it into Dean's arms. 

"Yeah…thanks," he replied, taking the gun back and reloading it. 

"You all right man?" asked Joel, stepping up to the small group and referring to Devlan, who was still bleeding from his head. 

"I'll live," he said, giving a shaky thumbs-up and wincing in pain slightly. 

"Well either way, let's get that patched up for you," chimed in Nick, calling over Daniels, who began to wrap a sterile gauze around the sniper's head. As that was going on, the other mercs in the lot began to gather, most of them reloading their weapons or gazing fearfully at the body of the fallen behemoth. 

"Now what do we do?" asked Dean, matter-of-fact. 

"We move on, now," replied Nick. "Let's get out of here before we get anymore nasty surprises." A chorus of agreements went up from the small group as some began to make their way towards the path out onto the street once more, glancing at the fallen monster with worried eyes. 

"Amen to that," said Benson, standing near to the creature's body. "I'd like to get as far away from this freak as is humanly poss- AHHHH!"

With barely any time to react, the thing's arm had shot out and clamped down upon the man's leg, squeezing it and breaking his knee and shin bones in the process. He'd cried out and fallen to the ground, trying desperately to pry the giant fingers off of his leg. The others suddenly turned to look at the scene with shocked looks on their faces as the seemingly-defeated beast casually got back to its feet, leaving the squirming mercenary at its feet. As Benson tried to aim his shotgun at the beast's torso, it snatched the gun from his hands and crushed it into a warped piece of metal, tossing it aside like garbage. 

Dean noticed that the numerous wounds it had received just before were gone, as if it'd never been shot in the first place, but the bullet holes in its black clothing still remained. 

"Benson!" shouted Nick in surprise, opening fire on the monster, which barely flinched as it stooped down and plucked the unlucky mercenary off of the floor, holding him at least 6 feet off of the ground. With their aim blocked, the others could do nothing as Benson struggled to break free. Suddenly, a purple tendril burst from the creature's wrist and punched straight through the man's mouth and out the back of his skull, spraying blood, bone and brain fragments across the ground. Benson's body twitched a couple of times before he finally went limp. 

"Jesus Christ!" yelled Dean as he witnessed the monster's terrifying strength. With its current victim dead, the creature retracted the tendril with a disgusting sound, before tossing the limp body aside like a rag-doll, and it smashed into a light post, wrapping around it with another resounding crack before falling to the tarmac. Turning its gaze towards the still-alive mercenaries, it let out another ground-shaking roar of rage. 

"FUCKING RUN FOR IT!" screamed a panic-stricken Lee, and every man there, including Dean, turned on their heel and ran for it as quickly as they could, spilling out onto the street against Nick's objections. Then again, the normally restrained leader understood that flight would be the best option here, and followed his men out onto the street. 

The one-eyed menace sprinted off after the fleeing mercenaries, determined to crush every single one of them like a bug. It roared again as it flipped over a sedan that lay in its path onto its roof with practically no effort at all.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Primal fear had taken hold of the group. Taylor and Dean were running within the middle of the group, trying their hardest not to trip up and get left behind or trampled into the dirt by their fleeing comrades. There was a lot of shouting and pushing going on, as Nick was trying his best to keep some sort of order from the back of the group. 

"Pull your ranks in!" he cried, being ignored completely. "Fucking keep your order!" 

"GRAAGGHHH!"

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" shouted someone at the front.

The beast was sprinting after them down the road, rapidly gaining ground. Looking over their shoulders briefly, some of the men regained their incentive to flee and began to run faster, leaving the scout and the cop behind gradually. 

"Slow…down!" panted Taylor, the sweat pouring down his forehead. But it was no use. Behind them, the monster raised its missile launcher and prepared to fire another shot at them. Nick saw this and shouted a warning to his men. 

"GET DOWN!" he cried, and most of them dived for any available cover, behind dumpsters or wrecked cars, or in Taylor and Dean's case, into the nearby alleyway entrance. The rocket was let loose with a whoosh, and it slammed head-on into a parked police cruiser on the street, causing it to erupt into a fierce display of flame and sparks. Feeling the heat wave wash over them, Taylor and Dean shielded their faces from it and tried to make out the locations of their companions, but a wall of flame had suddenly appeared across half of the street, blocking their progress inconveniently. 

"Shit…Nick!" cried Taylor, trying to make out any movement on the opposite side of the flames. Not far away, the one-eyed freak was approaching once more, its missile launcher now discarded on the ground behind it. It had probably run out of ammo for the mighty weapon. 

"Taylor!" cried Nick's voice from somewhere out of sight. "Don't worry about us! Just get the fuck out of there! We'll regroup at the clock tower!" 

"We could be dead by then!" shouted Dean, glancing back at the approaching monster. The shotgun was getting clammy in his grip. 

"You're with one of my best men, Dean!" came the reply. "Stick with him and you'll both make it, I'm sure of that!" Then there was the sound of several pairs of feet fleeing from the fire as fast as they could, leaving them alone.

"Yeah, much appreciated!" cried Dean sarcastically as he saw that the beast was almost upon them. Taylor grabbed him by the collar and dragged him down the alley for a few feet, then let him go so he could run by himself. 

They ran on and on, turning numerous twists and bends in an attempt to loose the monster that was at their heels. No matter how fast they sprinted or how many turns they took, it was still right behind them. Dean could swear he felt it breathing down his neck at one point. Quickly, he ducked just as it threw a massive punch, the attack punching straight through a brick wall ahead of them. As it fought to free its huge arm, the two survivors pushed the advantage and ran on, trying to put as much distance between them and it as possible. 

"Does this freak…ever…give up?" panted Dean, feeling his legs protesting under the constant strain of running for long distances. 

"Just keep running!" shouted back Taylor, leading the way. Suddenly, he came to a halt and Dean nearly fell over him. Ahead of the two of them, a small courtyard beckoned, with several zombies wandering about within its confines, which gave an added danger. If they stopped to kill the zombies, one-eye would be all over them like a nasty rash. What to do…

"Come on!" cried Taylor, dragging Dean along with him. 

"You crazy man?" shouted back Dean, hearing another roar of frustration nearby. 

"We can make it!" reassured Taylor. "If we can get past those flesh-eaters smiley boy will have to punch through them to get to us! Come on!" 

Seeing the advantages of his companion's plan, Dean went along with it, even though screwing up would get them eaten alive or beaten to a pulp by an 8-foot zombie on steroids. Narrowing his eyes as they approached the zombie-filled courtyard, Dean saw that the group had dispersed enough to leave them with an open space to fit through, which was kind of them, thought Dean. Lowering his posture, he and Taylor both tore past the flesh-eaters with relative ease, Dean having to shove a bulky man in a grubby vest and shorts out of his way. 

They ran on some more, and Dean glanced over his shoulder to see their pursuer stop dead in its tracks as it ran into the group of zombies, who obviously mistook it for their next meal. They lunged at the beast to try and take a bite, and were clubbed to the ground or tossed about as they tried to attack. 

They rounded a corner and kept on running, not stopping until they emerged out onto another open street and made a mad dash for an open pharmacy across the street from them, taking cover within it and praying that it wouldn't find them again. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The Nemesis finished off the last infected civilian attacking it by literally tearing its head off and tossing the parts aside like garbage. With that nuisance out of the way, it roared in fury once more, the two puny humans it was chasing long gone. Barely 15 minutes ago, Umbrella's most powerful bio-weapon had come across a number of men who had attacked it using their puny weaponry, causing it a certain degree of damage and even managing to knock it out for a short period of time. Although these men had the logo of its creator on their jackets, it was still programmed to crush anyone and anything that stood in its way, regardless of their allegiance. 

But it had only managed to kill one of them before the rest fled from its allmighty power, and it still wanted to take its frustrations out on anything that it came across. 

Then it remembered its mission, one of utmost importance: to hunt down what remained of Raccoon City's S.T.A.R.S team and kill them all, to prevent any of the corporation's secrets from being told to the world, especially after what they saw at the mansion. It had only recently been deployed, and it was yet to find any of its targets that it had been given data for, but there was still plenty of time for a hunt. Unlike other B.O.Ws such as Hunters or Tyrants, the Nemesis had an actual concept of its mission, and would accomplish it to whatever end. 

"S.T.A.R.S…" growled the monster, as it suddenly leapt 10 stories onto the roof of a small apartment building, before making more giant leaps across the neighbouring buildings as it searched for its prey. 

No-one could hide from the Nemesis. They were only delaying the inevitable… 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Looking around, Dean couldn't help but notice how many of the products on the shelves were Umbrella products. Only about 10 of the items weren't Umbrella-related. Further proof that Umbrella Inc. had the greatest foothold for business in this town.

"Is it safe?" he asked from his hiding place behind the counter. Taylor was looking outside for any potential threats in the area, and to see if the beast chasing them had given up. 5 minutes had passed since they last saw it, so Taylor assumed that it would be safe to come out. 

"You can come out, the big scary monster's gone now," he said with a mocking tone. Dean flashed him a deadly glare as he emerged to stand next to the scout. 

"Well excuse me for being scared, but that freak didn't give you one of these," he said, lifting up his shirt and jacket to show a huge ugly bruise down the left side of his torso where he'd landed on a car when that thing tossed him a short time before. Taylor just chuckled at him like it was all some kind of joke. Dean ignored him as he sat down on the kerb to stretch out his legs and to recover from all the running he'd been doing. As he did, he rubbed his throat, which was still sore from when it had grabbed him by the neck. 

"Now what?" he asked Taylor eventually, listening to the wind whistling down the empty street. 

"We get to the clock tower, like the boss said," he replied simply. Taking a small device out of his vest, he pushed a few buttons and turned to Dean. "My map here tells me that the tower's still a couple of blocks away. We could make it if we move at a constant pace." Dean finished his snack and got to his feet. 

"You got maps of the city in there?" he asked, stepping closer to have a look at the small device Taylor was holding.

"I took a few precautions before we left," replied Taylor, showing Dean the device, a small black metallic object with a small screen on the facing side, currently showing an outline of Raccoon City's streets in green on black. "State-of-the-art PDA device, it can store any information you want it to." Dean whistled in admiration and looked at the map for a few moments. 

"Wait, the zoo's just a short distance away," he said, pointing down the street towards a place where an iron fence rose up around a block of isolated buildings. A sign reading 'Raccoon City Zoo: bring the whole family!' was erected on a street corner, indicating what was located there. 

"I'm sure that'd work," replied Taylor. "It's better than going through the streets, where god knows how many zombies are lurking. Hopefully the place will be abandoned."

Dean didn't like that last comment, as with the state the town was in, there was a good chance that there were zombies lurking in every building, waiting for anyone to just wander through and become the appetiser. As he thought that, a solitary moan was heard, and he looked up to see a single zombie slowly crossing the street about 30 feet away from them, oblivious to their presence. It wandered on and disappeared around the corner. Then again, he thought, cutting through the zoo could help them get past any streets that were either crawling with undead or blocked off by wreckage. Looked like it was decided then. 

"Fine," he said, getting back to his feet and stretching out his limbs. "Come on. Let's get going before anything ugly turns up." Dean walked by his companion, heading towards the Zoo's back entrance. Taylor packed away his PDA and followed after the Raccoon cop, his rifle raised in case anything suddenly attacked. 

As they passed by a street opening, they noticed what looked like the carcass of what was formerly a rhinoceros, lying in the middle of the street and being torn into by several zombies, who failed to notice the still-living humans watching them. 

"Damn," said Taylor. "Looks like this place has gone to hell too." Dean just watched in morbid curiosity as the former humans hungrily tore away at the dead animal like piranha in a feeding frenzy. If what he was told about there being a virus to blame for the chaos on the city, would it affect the animals in the zoo as well? His encounters with those giant mutant bugs and that smiley monster back there showed him that zombies were the least of his worries. How bad would it get? 

"Come on," he said to Taylor, ignoring his dark thoughts. He led his companion towards an iron gate and opened it up, both of them stepping inside. 

Barely a minute had passed when something else happened out on the street. One of the zombies feasting upon the dead rhino was suddenly distracted by some presence near to it and looked up from its meal, blood dribbling from its mouth onto the front of its shirt. Something huge stood over the scene, just watching. 

Then in one single move, the zombies, the carcass, and a nearby parked car was tossed aside with terrifying ease via a single deadly blow, and a deafening demented bellowing sound echoed across several city blocks. 

**A/N: As always, R & R please. Next chapter is Raccoon Zoo, also featured as a scenario in Outbreak File #2. Thing is, I've never actually played File #2, so I'm not sure how you'll like it. Ah well, you'll see it here once I'm finally done with the tounching up. **


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Wild Things

**September 26****th**** 2139 hours**

"What was that?" asked Taylor, referring to the sudden bellowing noise they had both heard from just outside of the zoo. There was a deadly silence as the only sound that could be heard now was the wind whistling through the deserted streets, and the constant tortured moans of nearby undead.

"I'd rather not know," said Dean silently, grabbing his companion by the shoulder and beginning to pull him away from the door.

They were in a back alley near to the zoo entrance, and from initial impressions the place was abandoned. There wasn't a trashcan over-turned, a piece of paper littered or even a dead body in the place. Maybe the zoo had escaped the devastation, but something at the back of Dean's mind still niggled at him…

"This is the back of the Elephant Bar," he said suddenly, pointing towards a door ahead of their position. He was referring to the restaurant outside the zoo that visitors often stopped at when leaving or before entering the zoo complex itself. He'd been before once, in the past: now it looked as though he'd never visit it again.

"OK," said Taylor with a nod, "you know this place better than me, you lead the way," he finished, pulling back the slide on his M4A1. Dean gave a little nod, before taking up a position next to the door, and trying the door knob. It gave way, as the door was unlocked.

Dean pulled the door open and stepped inside the unusually dark interior of the restaurant, listening intently for any nearby threats. It was deathly quiet. By the looks of things, he was in the storage area of the restaurant, as boxes of food, cutlery and other essentials on sets of selves on either side of the room greeted him. Nothing had been plundered or knocked over.

The door opened and closed behind him, indicating that Taylor had followed him through.

"All clear so far by the looks of things," he muttered. "What about the main restaurant?"

"Let's find out," replied Dean. He approached the door into the main seating area and carefully opened it up, peeking through the small gap. The seating area was practically spotless, with no bloodstains, dead bodies, and very little litter. Maybe this place had gotten off lightly after all…

A long, drawn-out moan shattered that thought, as Dean noticed a lone zombie standing near to the door, facing away from him, swaying slightly from side to side.

"There's one in here," he whispered back to Taylor.

"He's all yours," replied Taylor in a hushed voice. Satisfied that the zombie was still unaware of his presence, Dean carefully made his way into the seating area, his handgun drawn. Once he was fully inside the place, he drew a bead to the back of the zombie's head and fired a single shot, sprays of blood bursting from the creature's face as it collapsed on its front with a wet splat. Silence descended once again, as Dean approached the corpse to have a closer look, with Taylor following him into the area. On closer inspection, the zombie was dressed like one of the zoo keepers, wearing a blue jacket with 'Raccoon Zoo' written on it, now saturated with blood from the bite mark on the man's left shoulder. He must have been one of the unlucky ones who got left behind in the chaos.

"Looks like his luck ran out," muttered Taylor, suddenly appearing at Dean's shoulder. "I've had a look round, looks like the place has been ransacked, there's nothing useful left aside from some candy bars." He offered a couple of bars to Dean, who took them with a grin and dropped them into his side pack.

"My waistline will suffer, but it beats chewing on those herbs," he mused, referring to the green plants that grew naturally in the Raccoon area and acted as a useful natural healing aid by being consumed raw or as ground-up dust.

"Suppose so," replied Taylor with a laugh, "I wouldn't recommend those blue herbs either."

The dramatic atmosphere had been reduced somewhat by the light-natured banter the two of them had just shared, and made Dean feel a lot more relaxed than he should allowed to be in this cursed place. It also made him think about Ben. When he saw that army of zombies outside of the R.P.D, then subsequently had to go in the back door, he was convinced that Ben would have joined them. He found the building practically empty as well, aside from the seriously wounded Marvin Branagh and that insanse fucker Chief Irons. Dean was sure they were both zombies now, forced to wander the streets searching for still-living flesh to feast upon. As for Ben, he knew about him and some of the other cops managing to escape from the precinct before it was totally overrun, so there was a good chance he was still alive somewhere else in the city…

"Dean?" asked Taylor suddenly. Dean looked up at him. "Something bothering you?"

"No," replied the officer, standing up straight. "Let's just move on. I found this in our dead guy's pocket." He opened his palm, showing Taylor a large steel key with 'BACK GATE' written upon it.

"Looks like we can cut through the zoo with this," mused Taylor. "Let's get going."

"Sure thing," replied Dean.

The two of them left through the front door, emerging onto the road that leaded up to the huge wooden gates at the back of the zoo. The mangled corpse of another dead rhino lay in the middle of the street, large areas of its flesh torn off, possibly from a zombie feeding frenzy. A smashed-up pick-up truck prevented the two of them from taking the route away from the zoo, so they had little choice but to approach the huge gates.

As they drew near, Dean noticed a white piece of paper pinned to the notice board next to the gates, next to which was a fallen and broken statue of Mr. Raccoon, the zoo mascot.

"What's this?" asked Dean, pulling the paper from off of the board. Taylor appeared next to him, taking the paper and reading the message printed on it out aloud.

"Attention all survivors, this is a message from the Raccoon Police Department."

"The police?" asked Dean, almost tearing the note out of Taylor's hand, eager to read anything related to his fellow officers. He continued reading it. "We have set up an emergency extraction point close to the zoo's front entrance, where the National Guard have organised an extraction chopper to provide airlift extraction for anyone who turns up. Please make your way here as fast as you can, as we have no idea how much longer we can hold this area before we are overrun." It looked like some of the R.P.D had taken efforts to try and save some of Raccoon's citizens across the city, despite the chaos taking place.

"This is it!" beamed Taylor, "some decent aid at last! All we have to do is go through the zoo."

"Yeah," replied Dean quietly, crumpling up the note and putting it in his pocket. "But I've got a very bad feeling about this. It's too quiet in there. And even if we do get through without incident, that extraction point may have been already overrun by then." Taylor looked towards the back doors into the zoo. Dean was right: there was barely a sound coming from within the zoo's walls, no moaning, not even the wind blowing. And who knew how long it would take to get through the zoo as well?

"You're right," replied Taylor uncomfortably. "But we don't have much of a choice. The road going around the zoo's been blocked off, and even if it wasn't, we'd still have all those zombies to go through. And even if that extraction point turns out to be a waste of time, it at least brings us a bit closer to that Clock Tower."

Dean was quiet for a while, as he considered his next choice of action, before he finally spoke. "Fine, we'll cut through the zoo. But if we get killed, I'm gonna come after you in our next life, understood?"

"Of course," laughed Taylor, patting Dean on the shoulder. "Now let's get going, that extraction point ain't gonna be there forever." Dean nodded and handed the back door key to Taylor, who pulled back the slide on his M4A1, chambering a round. Dean followed suit and prepared his powerful shotgun, so they would be fully prepared for what lurked inside the zoo.

Approaching the big doors, Taylor unlocked the large steel lock, before pushing open one of the doors with a bit of effort. Dean made his way inside, before Taylor carefully pulled it shut behind them.

The doors opened out onto the main zoo concourse, a roughly circular route that would lead to the entrances to the other attractions, including the elephant stage where the visitors got to see the zoo's star attraction up close, the greenhouse filled with exotic plant life, and the cages that held the wildlife from Africa, mainly the pride of lions and a small group of hyenas the zoo owned. The concourse was deathly silent and spotless, just like the Elephant Restaurant was outside, with various refreshment and merchandise stands remaining unlooted and upright.

"Looks allright so far," said Taylor aloud.

"Probably won't stay like that for much longer," replied Dean, looking to the left towards a long straight that lead up to a single door in the wall where the corner started. "Come on, let's get going," he finished. The two of them began to walk towards the door in the distance, but Dean slowed to a halt when he noticed that the floor was vibrating beneath his feet.

"Hm?"

CRASH!

The wall next to the back gates was suddenly obliterated in a shower of debris and dust, sending huge blocks of concrete rolling onto the concourse. The two survivors nearly jumped out of their skins upon hearing the noise, and looked back towards the source of the sound as masonry rained towards them.

"Look out!" shouted Taylor as he tackled Dean to the floor, narrowly avoiding a huge block of concrete that bounced off of the ground where they had been stood a few moments before and shattered into pieces.

"Thanks," said Dean as they pulled themselves back to their feet, looking towards the huge cloud of dust created where the wall had just disintegrated into nothing. A deafening bellowing sound rang out, similar to what they had heard outside of the zoo just a short time.

"What the hell?" blurted Taylor as something huge stomped out of the dust.

It was, or rather used to be, a fully-grown African Elephant, but now it was just a mockery of its original existence, covered in acres of rotting skin that was going putrid and beginning to tear away in places, its huge ears marked with numerous tears and cuts, its great tusks now jagged in appearance, capable of impaling a man with, and soulless white eyes, similar to the zombies the two survivors had been battling these last few hours. Its distended belly hung down beneath its bulky mass, hovering only a couple of feet off of the ground.

"A zombie elephant?" said Dean in disbelief, as he began to back away slowly, his shotgun trained on its face. The beast stamped repeatedly as it shook the dust off of its skin, the ground shaking under the thing's monstrous bulk. Its gaze settled upon the two men, and it began to pad forward carefully, the ground shaking with each step it took.

What the hell had happened to the poor animal? Then again, he remembered what he had been told about the virus that was supposedly responsible for all of this, and guessed that if it affected humans, it might have an effect upon other animals as well. Those huge bugs he had fought back in the construction site alleyway…were they a product of this virus as well?

He was cut off from his thoughts as Taylor fired a burst from his M4A1 into the undead elephant's face. He couldn't miss really, and his shots impacted between its huge eyes, on its trunk. Blood spurted out and the beast let out a squeal of pain, shaking blood from its face.

"Not a good idea!" shouted Dean, as he'd doubted that their guns would be much use against something that big. Or at the very least they'd need a much bigger gun. The elephant stared at the two of them with intense hatred and anger, and then its mouth opened, letting out a mighty bellowing cry that forced both men to clamp their hands over theirs ears, threatening to deafen them both. Following its mighty battle cry, the beast began to stomp towards them with more urgency than before, sweeping its huge trunk and knocking aside a merchandise stand like it was nothing, scattering shirts, caps and badges.

"Definitely not a good idea!"

"RUN!" yelled Taylor, firing another burst into the monster's bulky features.

It had no effect, with the elephant suddenly picking up speed as it charged towards the two of them, who were now sprinting full pelt away from the beast. Dean felt his legs burning up as he tried his best to stay ahead of the monster, seeing Taylor was beginning to drop behind him somewhat.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" cried the mercenary.

"We just have to get to that door!" yelled Dean back, over the intense sound of the ground shaking and the elephant bellowing in rage. He risked a glance over his shoulder, and saw that the beast was practically breathing down Taylor's neck and was brining its trunk back for a sweeping attack.

"Taylor! Get down!" shouted Dean, as Taylor followed his companion's advice and dropped into a commando roll, narrowly avoiding the huge trunk sweep that missed his head by a few inches and instead smashed a hole in the wall near to the mercenary's head.

"Shit!" shouted the lucky survivor, as he got back to his feet and commenced running. Dean had drawn his shotgun by now and fired two shots into the beast's facial area, tearing great ruptures into the skin. It let out another squeal and began to shake its head vigorously, in an attempt to clear its vision of blood and resume its pursuit. By then, both men had reached their escape route, but the door was locked tight, no matter how hard they pulled or kicked at it.

"Shit!" cussed Taylor, booting the door below the handle a few times.

"Double shit!" injected Dean, wrenching Taylor round to face the now even more maddened elephant veering down on them, the ground shaking like a miniature earthquake had been unleashed. It bellowed once more, revealing rows of yellowed teeth, slick with putrid bloody drool within its maw.

"Triple shit!" shouted Taylor as he opened fire again, Dean soon following suit. Their volley tore into the beast's front legs, trunk and face, splattering blood all around it but failing to slow it down at all. It was now barely 20 feet away and quickly closing in on them.

"No!" shouted Dean exasperated, as he stopped to reload his shotgun. Next to him, Taylor was down to his last few bullets in the magazine. This had to be perfect he thought, as he raised the weapon to his eye level and offered up a prayer to whatever God was listening, even though he wasn't a very religious person at all. Still, desperate times called for desperate measures. He coiled his finger around the trigger, and took a deep breath before he finally pulled it and the rifle roared in response. Almost as if his prayers had been answered, the rounds flew straight and true, planting themselves right through the monster's right eye and reducing the optical organ to sludge.

It bellowed in pain, even louder than before, before it suddenly veered off course, colliding with the corner of the concrete building on the concourse headfirst, smashing through it like it was matchwood. There was another bellow of pain, followed by a sudden moaning noise as the elephant appeared to slow down. Sneaking a look from their position, the two survivors witnessed the creature slowly approaching another door that they hadn't noticed before, and awkwardly clambering over the low wall that separated the area from whatever was on the other side. Its last leg disappeared over the wall, and the stomping noise slowly faded away too. Apparently the beast had taken enough punishment for the time being.

Dean stood dumbfounded and just stared for a while, before he gave a whoop of joy, and then falling back on his rear, laughing at that incredible stroke of luck. "That was a damned amazing shot!" he called out to Taylor, who was still stood there dumbfounded. "What's your secret?"

"Prayer," he replied simply.

Dean just stared up at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

After giving themselves time to recover, the two of them followed the 'Zombiphant' (as Dean had dubbed it), to find themselves in another empty area of the concourse, with a locked door to one side and the entrance into a small office building to the other side. As Taylor had theorised, the recent blood trail on the ground that lead away into the distance probably belonged to the zombiphant, so they decided not to follow that route for a change. Finding the door into a office building unlocked, they stepped in to find the place surprisingly well-kept, like the rest of the zoo. There were a few desks overloaded with paperwork and a few bloodstains on the floor (but no bodies), but otherwise the area was clean. Dean also ransacked the locker room at the back of the area, turning up a broken shotgun. It was useless, but it still had several perfectly good shells that could still be used, so he pocketed those, while Taylor was busy rummaging through a stack of papers, turning up something potentially interesting.

"Hey Dean, look at this," he called out to his companion, who returned from the locker room. "Says here they've installed a new security system because of the recent problems. Seems you have to find a couple of lion emblems so you can use them to unlock the front gate."

"That's just great," muttered Dean, kicking a discarded drinks can across the floor. "Those emblems could be anywhere. And with that zombiphant prowling around we can't risk spending too long in this place."

"Well either way we don't have much of a choice," replied Taylor, putting the note down, "so if we can find some maps to this place, it'd be easier to cover all this ground. But we still need some clues as to where these emblems are kept. So let's look over the rest of this place, see if you can find anything useful."

"Sure…" said Dean, not exactly enthusiastic about trawling through heaps of meaningless paperwork to try and find something useful. He did enough of that in his day job. But as it happened, he wouldn't have to look for long. He touched a stack of folders and the whole mass fell to the floor, along with something metallic that slipped out of one of the files.

"What the?" asked Dean, stooping down and picking up a pair of keys. One was a bluish hue and had an elephant embossed on the circular part, while the other was red in colour and had a lion embossed on its surface.

"What are those?" asked Taylor, stood behind Dean.

"Keys by the looks of it," replied the cop. "But where to I've no idea."

"Hold on," said the scout, walking over to the desk across the room and pulling something out from among another stack of papers. He made his way back, holding what looked like a map to the zoo complex. "This shows there's a lion enclosure to the north of here, and to the south west is something called the Elephant stage…whatever that's supposed to be."

"So that means these keys correspond to those areas?" added Dean, looking at the designs on the two keys. "So more ground to cover then?"

"Looks like it," replied Taylor. "We've no idea what's out there, but we need those emblems if we to get out of here. Split up job?"

"If you insist," muttered Dean. "So, what do you prefer? Elephants or Lions?" He held up the two keys with a mocking expression on his face. Taylor smirked a little as he took the key with the elephant on it.

"Fair enough. I'll take the stage, you take the tropical house."

"But what if I wanted to do the stage?" protested Dean in a mocking fashion. Taylor gave him a filthy look and a smirk.

"Let's just get going allright?" the scout said, turning towards the desk where he'd found the map, and quickly digging out another one for Dean's use, before he approached the door to the outside area. Dean hurried after him, and soon both men were stood outside in the chilling wind once more. The concourse was abandoned still, but both still kept an eye out for any angry zombified elephants in the area.

"OK then, we'll meet up at the front gates," confirmed Dean with a nod. "Just be careful out there."

"Hey, I should be saying the same to you," replied Taylor, "but you've handled yourself pretty well from what I've already seen, so I'll let it slide this time."

"Oh how kind," said Dean in a droll manner. "You should be careful as well." The mercenary scout nodded in response before he turned and walked away.

"Be careful now!" he shouted over his shoulder, disappearing around the corner. Dean smiled a little to himself, feeling as though he'd known the man for years, even if they'd only just met a few hours ago. Either way, he was grateful he'd met the man, along with his companions…it was making the whole ordeal somewhat bearable at the least. Shaking off the thoughts, he opened up his map.

His destination was through the lion enclosure, he was told, and helpfully the area on the North East portion of the map was marked 'lion enclosure', so he began to make his way over there in a hurried manner. Soon he came to a steel door with a lion motif etched under the keyhole, and pulled out the key he had, putting it into the lock and turning it with ease, being rewarded with a resounding 'click'. He pulled the door open and stepped inside, closing it behind him carefully. He found himself in another straight open passage, with a sign off to the side indicating the 'African Enclosure'.

He didn't get very far until he came across another dead body, this one being torn into by a pair of dog-sized animals, but these things definitely weren't dogs. They had patches of skin missing from their bodies, dead white eyes and the stench of decay about them, but they were more hunched in appearance and had grey fur with patches of black upon it and a hairy mane down the back of their necks. They looked more feral in appearance…

"Hyenas?" said Dean in shock. They looked like walking dead, but there was no doubt that they used to be African Hyenas, ravaged by the same ailment that was turning Raccoon into a Necropolis. The creatures eventually finished their meal and looked up at the newly arrived cop, their tongues lolling about their drooling maws as they anticipated a new kill. One of them made that bizarre laughing cry that Hyenas were famous for and made a dash for the cop, but instead of lunging at him, it slowed to a halt a few feet away and appeared to be shying away like a dog afraid to be beaten by its master.

"What the?" said Dean, lowering his weapon a little. Then he remembered hearing something about how Hyenas had a natural fear of humans and wouldn't stray too close to one usually. Seemed like even when 'turned' these things seemed to remember their deepest instincts and fears.

"Fine by me," said Dean to himself, raising his shotgun and firing into the beast's face, reducing it to a bloody pulp and killing it instantly. Right then, the second one suddenly reacted and charged for the man, bloody drool dripping from its fangs. It lunged at his throat, fangs bared, but he quickly fired two shots into its front, the first knocking it backwards and the second blowing apart its front end completely.

"Discovery Channel was useful for something," he quipped, reloading his weapon. Walking carefully past the fallen undead hyenas, he made sure that there was no other potential threats nearby. Passing the creature's last meal, he noticed that it was another zoo keeper, his face and torso torn into beyond recognition. Poor soul, he didn't deserve this, thought Dean. Then again, no-one in Raccoon City deserved this…

Ahead of him loomed a large cage enclosed off with iron bars. A few of those bars had been bent apart and torn open with unnatural force, from the inside. Whatever had done that, Dean hoped he wouldn't be running it into anytime soon. However, luck wouldn't be on his side tonight…

There was an ungodly roar from somewhere nearby all of a sudden, making Dean nearly jump out of his skin and start pointing his shotgun everywhere around him. A few seconds later, the roar came once again, and his attention was diverted to a wall to the left of the enclosure. Standing atop the structure was a huge beast that was formerly a majestic male African Lion, its skin now marked with numerous cuts and tears, and in some places huge patches of its fur were missing to reveal the muscle and sinew beneath. Its bushy mane was matted and thick with blood and other unknown fluids, and the creature's upper jaw was beginning to disintegrate into nothing. Once more, another attraction had become a member of the undead.

"Just perfect…" muttered Dean, stepping back slowly and carefully. With another roar, the beast leapt from its perch, soaring through the air and landing with a thud about 10 feet away. Facing towards its newly-discovered prey, the monster roared once more, this time with such intensity that Dean's skin was threatened to be torn from his bones and he was nearly deafened, shying away from the beast. Recovering and looking up, he was shocked to see that the thing was approaching him slowly, like it would perhaps stalk its prey in the wild. With a startled cry, he raised his gun and fired a shot into its chest. Blood sprayed from the wound and it roared in pain, but it didn't slow down, instead lunging at the cop with its front legs raised up in front of it.

Quickly, Dean threw himself into a roll to the side, barely avoiding the clawed paws that came for him, and fired into its side, tearing another bloody wound into the beast's flank. It roared again and turned around, slashing its claws at him again. He reared back quickly, but still the claws slashed through the sleeve of his jacket. At least it wasn't his arm, he thought. Raising his heavy weapon with just one arm, he fired his third shot into the lion's face at nearly point-blank range, spraying blood and brain matter across everything in range and blowing the right side of his body backwards due to the re-coil of the shot. As he picked himself off of the floor with his teeth stuck in a pained grimace, he saw the creature lying dead a few feet away from him, its face mangled beyond recognition, the blood still pumping out of the wound and spreading below its form.

"Christ…" he said to himself, looking at the fresh tears in his jacket sleeve. Zombies, zombie dogs, giant mutant bugs, huge one-eyed freaks wielding rocket launchers: all of that didn't compare to the freaks he'd seen roaming around the zoo so far. What else was he going to come up against before this whole incident was over? He was tempted to just break down and cry right there, but he willed himself not to.

He had to get out of Raccoon City alive, even if it would take him the whole week to do so. He'd already been unable to protect most of his friends and colleagues thus far, and the news that Ben among with several others escaping the station gave him a bit of hope he could hold onto, at least for the moment. Once he'd reached that clock tower, or at the very least that extraction point outside the zoo, he'd make attempts to try and find his old friend again.

He loaded some more fresh shells into his weapon and got back to his feet. It was time to move on.

Taylor wasn't faring much better.

"Fucking cats…"

The Elephant Stage was coated in blood from a recent massacre, where a pair of creatures that were originally female lions were tearing into a set of dead bodies like an all-night buffet. When they noticed him they attacked without mercy and he had to utilise every one of his combat abilities to avoid being gutted and devoured. He'd expended a full M4 clip and one of his hand grenades in order to kill the beasts. Looking about him now, he was in a large open courtyard, its intended purpose he didn't have a clue about. Across from him and the massacre scene was a pair of large, sturdy-looking steel doors, bound with a length of steel chain across them, and locked with a large rusty padlock. Looking to his right, he noticed something sparkling on the ground.

"Hm?" he said, stepping closer. Lying at his feet was a small steel emblem, red in colour and depicting a motif of a lion standing upon its hind legs and roaring into the sky. Maybe it was one of the emblems needed to unlock the front gates, he thought as he picked it up and pocketed it, blessing his luck. Now, he just had to find Dean again and get out of there. Simple, or so he thought.

Approaching the large steel doors, he looked down at the lock and bought out his handgun. He tried to break it off by using his gun butt as a club, but it remained in place, only rattling slightly. Rolling his eyes in frustration, he took careful aim with his rifle, and making sure that he wasn't facing the lock to prevent his face frm being scarred by any debris, and fired a single shot into the annoying lock, shattering it into pieces. Holstering his gun and pulling the chains from their position, he tried the doors, but they barely budged.

"Oh what now?" he said loudly. Looking around the structure, he guessed that they opened in another manner, and settled his gaze upon a set of stairs to the left that lead up to a small door that he'd originally failed to notice. Making his way back around and up the steps, he came up to the door and stopped, listening to what sounded like the smacking of lips behind it. Checking his SIG Pro and drawing it, he carefully opened the door and peeked inside.

A single zombie zoo keeper, stooped over the carcass of a civilian, was having its fill of human flesh, making a hell of a mess in the process. Taking aim, Taylor put a bullet into its back, making it stand upright and make a turning lunge at the U.B.C.S scout, who was too quick to retaliate by putting a shot into its forehead, snapping its head backwards and making it fall onto a set of controls. Stepping fully into the new room, Taylor saw that he was standing in a small control booth above another open area, this one with lots of rows of seating in the middle, and to the right, a large stage decorated with several somewhat childish depictions of elephants, among other animals. Maybe this was where they put on shows for the children who came to visit, thought Taylor to himself. A blood-stained sheet of paper had been pinned to the controls, and the U.B.C.S scout was only too keen to tear if off and read the message written upon it.

_That damned elephant's becoming a complete nuisance! Luckily, it seemd it still retained some memory when it turned into a monster. It still hates that new parade music__ we started using a few weeks ago. So in theory, if someone uses the tape player they could lure the damned thing here and lock it in. But I'm not that crazy to lock myself in here with it…_

Looking over to the control panel, he saw what looked like a tape player, and a large red button that was currently flashing periodically.

Pushing it in with his palm, Taylor was rewarded with a sound of screeching metal and saw that the large steel gate he'd been at moments before was raising up, stopping just high enough for nearly anything to get through. It was nearly unnecessary though, as he also saw a ladder near to his feet that lead down into the stage area. With a sigh, he looked about for anything else useful that could be in the control booth, but turned up nothing. Then his gaze settled upon the large tape recorder he'd sighted before, and remembered what the note he'd just read had talked about.

"I wonder…" he said, pressing 'play'. Almost instantly, a very annoying parade tune began to blare through a set of loud speakers set up in the upper corners of the area. Somewhere in the distance, he heard something bellowing loudly, sounding very angry indeed. He smiled to himself, waiting patiently.

Dean Travers stepped out of the Plant Terrarium, wiping a load of sweat from his forehead. It was amazingly humid in there, especially with those Rafflesia plants letting off that stench of rotten meat whenever he got too close. Having already dealt with a few more lions and hyenas since reaching the African Enclosure, he was getting sick of this place and wished he'd never suggested cutting through it to Taylor in the first place. And he was going through his shotgun ammunition at a rapid pace as well. But on the good side he'd found the blue lion emblem, currently resting in his side pack. He'd just hoped that Taylor had found the other emblem and was currently waiting for him at the front plaza. Pulling out his map, he looked over it and placed a finger on where he currently was, tracing a path to the front plaza.

"Just have to go through…the Alligator Enclosure…perfect," he muttered to himself. Looking up, he was in a swampy-looking area, complete with grassy ground, withered trees and a small lake of dirty, green water that separated two area of grassy ground. On the far side he could make out an iron door set into the wall. The water looked moderately deep, but the filth meant that he couldn't see below the surface, and anything could have been lurking underneath there.

"Well, here goes," he carefully said, putting a foot into the water. A few seconds later, the water began to ripple constantly, as something approached the disturbance created. Quickly, Dean took his foot back out and aimed his shotgun towards the centre of the pool. Nothing came bursting out from the depths as he expected, and the rippling stopped all together. Dean was somewhat reluctant to put his foot back into the water again, so he looked about him to see if there was anything useful he could use at that time. His gaze settled upon on the dead body of crow, lying flat on its back. Carefully picking up the dead bird, he looked out over the water and tossed it as far as he could out into it. The dead bird landed with a wet slap on the surface and remained there in place. Nothing happened initially.

Then something large, green and scaly launched up from the water, swallowing the crow's corpse whole and spraying water around it. Its pointed jaw was filled with rows of huge dagger-like teeth, and it made a sort of roaring sound as it disappeared beneath the water's surface once more. It looked like an alligator, but it looked larger than normal, and Dean could swear he made out a look of blood-fuelled madness in its eyes during its ambush strike. The water grew calm once again.

"Right then," he said to himself. "If Crocodile Dundee can get past one of these scaly fuckers, so can I," he reassured, holding up his shotgun. Knowing that he was going through water, he unloaded the weapon and put the shells back into his side-pack, which would hopefully be water-proof: if the gunpowder got wet the shells would be useless, and he didn't fancy wasting his ammo now. He did the same for his Beretta.

Strapping his shotgun around his chest, he carefully waded into the pool, hoping that the dead crow had satiated the thing's hunger, at least for the time being. His foot suddenly went down into an open void, indicating that the water was much deeper than he initially thought. Switching from his paddling motion into a breast-stroke, he gradually made his way across the pool, completely silent aside from him gasping for mouthfuls of breath and the sound of the water being swept aside. He thought that he was going to get across without incident.

Then 10 feet away from him, the water suddenly exploded and something burst up from the depths, roaring once more. The monstrous alligator rose up and glared towards the human trying to pitifully cross its domain.

"Oh shit!" he cried, speeding up his stroke and kicking his legs like crazy. The beast appeared to be effortlessly closing the distance towards him, and it would soon be on him, digging its teeth into his legs before dragging him down its gullet and swallowing him whole. His leg and arm movements speeded up, his face set into desperation.

Then, his hand grabbed onto a handful of grass and he quickly pulled himself onto some dry land, a god send as far as he was concerned. Pulling his drenched legs out of the water, he ran as fast as he could towards a single door ahead of him, another small miracle in this nightmare. Glancing over his shoulder, the monster pursuing him rose out of the water onto the grass, its enormous jaws opened wide, threatening to swallow him whole. Without thinking, Dean had suddenly ripped one of the hand grenades he'd picked up a while before from his person and ripped the pin out, before quickly tossing it at the opened maw.

The scaly beast surprisingly opened it's mouth and welcomed the spherical explosive into its mouth, but then again it probably thought it was a tasty morsel to feast upon. Dean didn't care either way, turning and wrenching open the steel door before him and falling throw it in his haste to flee.

He landed on his hands and knees, panting for breath, and behind him there was a sudden and very loud boom. Looking over his shoulder, he stared at the door he'd just come through, half expecting the alligator, half of its jaw ripped away and pouring blood, still alive, coming barging through the door at him. Lucky for him, it didn't, and just as well otherwise he'd probably be dead by now.

That still didn't change the fact he was soaked to the bone though, and a chill began to bite through into his skin. Taking off his shotgun and laying it on a nearby bench, he removed his jacket and wringed it out, water splashing down onto his trainers. He wished he had a change of clothes right about now, but that luxury wasn't currently available to him at the moment. If he came across a clothes' shop, maybe…

Putting his jacket back on, he took up his shotgun again and loaded it up to maximum capacity, the shells kept dry in his side pack luckily. He then did the same for his Beretta, before holding the handgun as his primary weapon. That done, he looked about. He was currently in a small area complete with a couple of wooden benches, a set of steel stairs leading up to a small watch-tower, and a path leading away through the wall to his right. According to his map, it would lead towards the front plaza, his ultimate destination. But first he decided to check out the tower, in case there was something useful in there.

He ascended the steps, feeling a chill from his recent dip in the last enclosure he'd gone through. Opening the door carefully, he peered inside to find that it was empty, aside from another dead zoo keeper, lying up against the wall below one of the windows, his gut slashed open by something very sharp indeed, and several pints of blood on the ground beneath him. Dean sighed again, before looking around the rest of the tower interior. Lying on one of the window sills was a large-calibre hunting rifle, fully-loaded and with a box of spare ammunition next to it.

"Nice," he said, looking over the weapon and finding a hand-written note next to it, the untidiness of the writing indicating that the man was probably very weak and dying when he wrote it.

_Fuck this shit!_

_I loved working here; it was like a dream come true. Until all the animals began to go insane and attack anything in sight, that is. We managed to get most of the civilians to a safe place before the place went to hell fully, but me and Patrick were a bit too slow to join them. Then we heard that the R.P.D had set up an extraction point nearby and I tried to make my way there, but Max got me good. There's little left to do but wait here to die…_

_If anyone finds this, I've left my hunting rifle for your use. It's modified to use tranquiliser darts normally, but I've loaded it with live bullets. Use it against those freaks best you can, and I wish you the best of luck. It's too late for me…_

_Steven Jenkins_

"Well thanks for the help, Mr. Jenkins," said Dean, slinging his shotgun behind his back and picking up the rifle, checking the sights as he did so. He also grabbed for the box of bullets and slid it into his pocket for quick access. He was about to leave when he heard yet another moan behind him. Spinning around, he watched as Steven Jenkins rose up from his spot slowly, blood still dripping from his gut. His red hair was matted with blood and grime and his left cheek had been bitten into revealing the bone underneath. His eyes opened to reveal milky white and he roared as he tried to lunge for the cop.

The rifle in his hands fired loudly, the shot blowing straight through the zombie's head and through the glass window behind it, taking half of its skull with it. It slumped down with a thud, blood splattering around the place where it fell.

"Too slow," quipped Dean as he turned and left the tower and its former inhabitant behind, heading for the path towards the front plaza.

The rumbling footsteps grew louder and louder, until the huge bulk of what used to be an elephant appeared in the area below Taylor's perch, bellowing and stamping in pure rage. He smiled to himself as he saw that the plan he'd formulated was working. The beast stomped around the area below, demolishing and crushing the seating and anything else in its path. Soon, it approached the control tower and began to push up against it, trying to bring the tower and the tape player down in one fell swoop. Steadying himself, Taylor glanced down and saw a lone door set into the wall within a narrow space to the top of the area. A potential escape route, maybe?

Pressing the gate switch once more, he watched as it slowly closed down, trapping the undead beast within the cramped area. It didn't notice though, so fixated on stopping that dreadful noise at the moment. He had to move quick for the next part, he told himself, as he pressed eject on the tape player and pocketed the tape in case it would come in handy again in the near future. Luckily for him, the beast initially didn't realise the music had stopped until Taylor had dropped onto the ground and was making a run for the exit. Then it turned, almost as if it were sensing him, and charged, bellowing madly again.

"Crap!" he shouted, running faster towards his salvation. Reaching the door as the ground rumbled constantly under him, he rammed into it shoulder-first, and luckily it came smashing open, sparing him from being gored or trampled to death. He fell through the door and landed on his hands and knees, hearing a thud from behind him as the monster made contact with the wall. The brick shook and cracked somewhat, but otherwise remained intact. He could still hear the beast's frustrated bellowing though, but at least it was contained for the time being.

With a sigh of relief, he looked up, seeing that he was now in the front plaza, a long, straight area with a large set of steel gates at the far end, with a small shutter built into the side of them. In the middle of the area were a pair of bronze lion statues, set in majestic poses and with a shield-shaped indentation set into the base of each one. Those must've been the locks for the main gates, he thought to himself. All that was left to do was to wait for Dean and-

The merchandise cart to his right suddenly shook and turned itself over, a human figure staggering from the shadows of a previously-hidden path. With a jump, he aimed his M4 towards the figure and lined himself up for a head shot.

"Got you fucker!" he cried, preparing to fire.

"Wait! Don't shoot! It's me man!" cried a familiar voice back. The figure stepped out into the light now. Taylor lowered his weapon.

"Dean?" His clothes were largely soaked to the bone, his face was filthy and he was holding what looked like a high-calibre rifle, but it was definitely the same man he'd entered the zoo with in the first place. "Sorry about that," he said sheepishly, lowering his weapon.

"Sorry I startled you," replied dean with a smirk, wiping his face clean. "That cart was in my way and had to remove somehow. Any luck with your search?" In response, Taylor pulled out the red lion emblem and showed it to Dean. The cop reached into his own side pack and showed him the blue emblem he'd acquired from the Plant Terrarium, a smile on his filthy face.

"Looks like we're all set then," replied the U.B.C.S scout with a smile. "Have fun with the attractions?"

"If you call nearly being eaten alive a few times fun," replied Dean with a shake of his head. "Maybe you already know, but an undead elephant isn't the least of our problems. Speaking of dumbo, you run into him again?"

Taylor jerked his thumb towards the area he'd just come from. "I trapped him in the stage area. He won't be bothering us, for the time being at least." Another loud bellow rang out, causing them both to jump and look in the direction of the stage. "I think we'd best be going," he then said, indicating towards the lion statues. Dean nodded in agreement and made his way towards the centre of the plaza.

They slotted their emblems into the respective statues, being rewarded with a resounding 'click' for each one. They waited for something else to happen, but initially there was nothing. Then the sound of something metallic rising made them both look over towards the main gates, to see the small shutter rising up by itself, finally revealing their path out of the zoo to them, and closer to their ultimate goal.

"Thank God for that," whispered Dean, looking over at Taylor. "Now let's get going before-"

A sudden roar made them both freeze, looking about with their guns drawn to try and find the source of the noise. Soon, Dean centred his sights on a pair of large feline forms standing atop the roof of where Taylor had just come from. The zombie lions roared in unison, their battle-cry drowning out everything around the pair of survivors.

"Spoke too soon…" said Taylor, opening fire on one of the lions without any pause given.

It roared as the rounds slammed into it, before it pounced down to their level, closely followed by its companion. The wounded lion made a sudden lunge at Taylor, who rolled away out of danger and fired into the flank of the monster, drawing more blood but getting no closer to killing it. Dean meanwhile side-stepped a slash from the other lion and tried his best to aim the rifle, but at such close-quarters it was difficult to. He ducked away under another swipe, and rolled away a short distance, turning around and aiming his gun down towards the creature. With the space to work with now, he fired, the crack of the rifle sounding impossibly loud to him as the recoil threw him backwards onto his rear, spraying bloody chunks from his target's front left leg.

The gun's recoil was pretty savage, even though he had become used to the recoil of most weaponry during his training as a police officer and his time at the firing range during his spare time. He didn't have much to reflect though, as the wounded lion limped towards him, trailing blood from its wound and drool from its fangs. Pulling back the bolt to reload, he fired another shot into its face, and it exploded like a water balloon, spraying some of the gore onto his front. He spat out a mouthful of blood and spittle, and turned to give aid to Taylor if needed.

The scout dodged under another swipe, kept on his toes to keep ahead of the enraged monster's attacks, its fangs bared and going for his throat with every lunge. He was sweating bullets right now, and he could feel himself slowing down from fatigue. But he couldn't let himself drop his defences, especially with someone else relying on him. He kicked out at its face, stunning it and allowing him to back away, switching his rifle to full auto and firing into its face, completely decimating it. It slumped to the floor dead, and he gasped for breath, bending his knees slightly.

"Fuck…" he spat, before another growl caught his attention. Looking to his left, another lion was preparing to make a lunge for him. He froze as his eyes met its milky-white gaze. There were no emotions being given away in that stare, but he guessed that it was probably going to enjoy gutting him and feasting on his carcass afterwards. He swore silently as it launched itself into the air, teeth and claws bared.

CRACK!

A rifle shot rang out and the beast was punched out of the air sideways, landing with a crack on the cold ground. It tried to rise up, but there was another crack and blood sprayed out from its heart region and it slumped dead. Taylor looked over to his right to see Dean standing there, loading some fresh rounds into his still-smoking hunting rifle.

"Thanks man," said Taylor gratefully, getting back on his feet.

"Just thank the guy who left this for me," replied the cop, holding up the rifle. But they didn't get very much respite from the monster attacks.

Yet another roar brought their attention towards the main gates. One more zombified lion, this one a male, with an even bigger shaggy mane than the one Dean had seen a short time beforehand, and covered in numerous scars and cuts, stood atop the main gates. It seemed to be wearing a red collar as well, and some of its ribs were jutting out the right-hand side of its body.

"Not again…" grumbled Taylor, shouldering his rifle.

"Heads up!" cried Dean as the lion changed its posture.

A second later, the beast leapt from its perch and slammed down onto the ground, tearing towards the two survivors at an incredible speed. They both opened up, the loud cracks of the hunting rifle underpinned by the popping retorts of Taylor's M4A1. The beast seemed to take every hit in its stride, barely slowing down even as a rifle tore a huge rent into one of its front legs. Then it was within 12 feet and threw itself into the air, diving towards the two of them with its blood-stained fangs and claws poised to strike. Dean threw himself to the side, but Taylor, in a surprising move, fell onto his back, letting the beast pass over him, and as it did, he caught a brief scent of blood and decay from its form. Stopping himself from balking, he unloaded half his magazine into it, 15 rounds passing straight through its stomach region and out the other side, blood raining down on his face.

The beast ploughed into the ground face-first and rolled over before coming to a complete halt and lying still. Dean breathed heavily as he got back to his feet, looking over at the dead lion, then at the scout, who was lying on his back trying to catch his breath. He walked over and extended an arm to pull him back onto his feet.

"Nice moves," he said.

"Thanks", replied Taylor, checking the contents of his current magazine. "Now let's get going." They began to walk towards the main entrance again, when something caught Taylor's attention, out the corner of his eye.

Looking behind him, the male lion that looked dead wasn't so dead after all, and it had staggered back onto its four feet, still bleeding from its countless wounds. With a weak growl, it turned its attention towards the back of Dean Travers, who was walking away, completely oblivious to what was about to happen.

It was then that Taylor Drecker made the hardest decision in his life. When he acted, no force on earth could've stopped him.

"MOVE!" he roared, tackling Dean hard and throwing him face-first into the ground, but out of range of the lion's attack. He turned quickly and raised his M4, but he was way too slow to act. A huge weight slammed into him, pinning him down to the floor and sending his rifle flying out of reach. The wounded beast hovered over him, close enough for him to make out the details in its milky-white eyes, and the multitude of scars and sores marking its features like craters on the surface of the moon. At this distance, he noticed the deep red collar with a name tag on it, bearing the name 'Max', but that didn't matter right now, considering the position he was in. It seemed to take ages for the blow to come, but in reality it was only about 2 seconds.

With a deep growl, it raised one of its claws up and slashed down into the scout's shoulder, easily going through into his shoulder bone.

"Ah! Bitch!" he cried, pulling out his combat knife and driving it into the thing's face. It slid right through the skin and muscle, but the beast barely reacted to the attack, instead simply shaking its face to the side and dislodging the knife which flew away from where it had been jammed into its face to begin with. Knowing it's victim was powerless to do anything to resist, the zombified lion opened its maw wide and lunged down.

Taylor felt the teeth punch through his tactical vest and into his torso, into his internal organs. He screamed in agony, nearly drowning out the gunfire which quickly followed.

Dean was too slow. The lion had already slashed the merc's shoulder and bitten into him by the time the cop had gotten back to his feet and drawn his Beretta, firing 5 rapid shots into its flank. It shuddered and roared again, turning to face him before making another charge, forgetting about its current bleeding victim. Backing off, he unloaded 6 more shots into its bulk, and it collapsed onto the ground again, bleeding even more. He could see that it was still breathing even after all that punishment, so he stood over it, and fired his last 4 rounds into its head at point-blank range, blowing off part of its skull into the bargain.

He quickly dropped his weapon where he stood and ran over to where Taylor was lying, his torso severely ruptured, blood pouring out with each breath the man took. His olive fatigues were rapidly turning a sickly crimson colour. Dean didn't need to be an expert to know that his companion was dying and he couldn't do anything to save him. He dropped onto his hands and knees, crouched over the scout's prone form.

"Taylor…" he said, dumbfounded at why the man had taken that assault in his place.

"Don't mention it…" breathed the scout, coughing up blood and phlegm. The blood had completely soaked through his clothes now, and was spreading beneath him like a lake. "We had orders…to rescue the civilians of…Raccoon City…just following orders…"

"Could've done it in a less dangerous way you crazy bastard," replied Dean, his face retaining its stern features. Taylor suddenly removed something from his vest's pocket and drove it into Dean's hands. "That damned elephant hates this music…might come in handy…sometime" he explained, blood gushing from his wounds at a faster pace now. He didn't have long to go now.

"Taylor…" Dean said, trying to find the right words to say. "…thank you. If it weren't for you, I'd be dead at least 3 times over by now."

"Just doing my job," replied the mercenary weakly. "It's the least we can do for you people…none of you…deserved this shit… " He suddenly hacked again, dislodging another glob of bloody phlegm from his throat. But…I want you to do something for me…to repay me for my saving your ass…"

"What is it?" asked Dean, leaning a bit closer to the dying man.

"…Please, put a bullet in my head."

"What?" said Dean, standing back up. "Why though?! Those zombies I can manage killing, but I just can't shoot another human! Not now!"

"We both know I'm infected!" replied Taylor, trying to sound angry, but failing due to the fact he was at death's door. "The T-Virus spreads…through any direct contact…no way of stopping the infection once it gets to you…

_T-Virus?_, thought Dean. Was that the virus the U.B.C.S were talking about beforehand?

"Put a bullet in my head and there's no chance of me coming back as one of them…" Dean was silent as he considered the mercenary's words. "I'd rather burn in hell for eternity…than become one of those monsters…please do a dying man a final service…"

Dean sighed in defeat. The dying man was right: when he did die he'd become a zombie sooner or later, and that could be considered a fate worse than death to some. He couldn't save Taylor either way, but he could at least do this one final thing for him.

"Fine," he eventually said, and making his way over to his dropped Beretta, scooping it up and slapping a fresh magazine into it.

"Thanks…" whispered the scout, the blood pool beneath him widening even more. "I barely know you…but you're a good man Dean…a natural survivor…you'll get out of this city alive…and find your friend…trust me."

"I know I will," whispered Dean in response, aiming towards Taylor's head. His finger curled around the trigger, and he closed his eyes, taking a deep intake of breath as he did so.

BANG!

The shot rolled back and forth across the open area, sounding much louder than every other gunshot he had heard so far in his life. He blinked his eyes open, looking down at the body of the dead U.B.C.S scout. The man looked oddly at peace: his eyes were closed, and there was a semblance of smile on his lips along with a single, neat bullet hole in his forehead. Maybe he was happy that he had died a human after all. Silently, Dean gathered his gear back up, trying not to look at the dead body he had created with a single gun shot. But eventually, he forced himself to look down at the prone form, a puddle of crimson spreading beneath its head. With a heavy sigh, he forced himself to walk away towards the open shutter.

The street outside of the Zoo was practically clear of any debris or other devastation, which seemed unusually out of place during a time like this. Not even any discarded trash littered the tarmac. A lone tram car stood in the middle of the road, still on its tracks and the lights inside still on, almost as if it were just waiting for anyone to come along and use it. He couldn't see any sign of police or other peace-keeping forces there, so he wondered if this was even the right place. Or had they moved on already?

A sudden rumbling made him stop and listen. It sounded close, and was getting steadily louder.

"Oh not again," he muttered, readying the hunting rifle.

CRASH!

The front Zoo gates were suddenly slammed off of their hinges in a cloud of dust and masonry, and a familiar sight came storming out.

"Speak of the devil…"

The maddened zombiphant bellowed and settled its gaze upon the puny human before it, who had began to run around to its left. Even though it only had one good eye left, it could still see well enough, and it was hungry for blood.

The beast stomped its feet as it turned to face the human for a charge. The ground shook once again as the beast thundered towards him at high speed, and Dean quickly dived to the side, avoiding the beast at the last second as one of its tusks just missed gutting him. It came so close he even felt the breeze brush along his body. Raising the rifle, he fired a slug at nearly point-blank range through the creature's flank, exploding out of the other side of its considerable bulk in a spray of blood. The monster bellowed in anger and turned, sweeping its trunk at him. He ducked down as the huge appendage swept over him, missing him by a mere few inches.

Scrambling away from the monster as it raised up and tried to stomp down on him with all its weight, Dean aimed and fired another shot through the zombiphant's front left leg, causing it to let off another pained bellow. It buckled under its own weight and its head fell down to ground level. Dean lined up a perfect shot to the monster's forehead (after all, if human zombies died instantly from perfect headshots, so could zombie elephants), but before he pulled the trigger the creature's trunk lashed out with its trunk at a surprisingly fast pace.

The blow caught him off guard in the chest, throwing him backwards with massive force, the rifle flying out of his grasp. He hit the ground shoulders-first and slid along for several feet before coming to a rest, coughing as he did so. He barely had time to recover though, as he felt something huge approaching his position. He looked up to see the light being blocked by a huge mass, and he temporarily froze in fear and shock, as a massive foot began to raise itself over his prone form.

But then he found his self-control back in time and threw himself off to the side just as the foot slammed down where he'd been lying a few moments previously, literally cracking the tarmac in one blow. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the blinding pain in his shoulders and side, and watched as the zombiphant bellowed once more, angry at the fact it failed to crush someone beneath its bulk. Dean looked about and saw his rifle lying there on the opposite side of the maddened animal, and realised he probably wouldn't reach it without getting crushed first, and didn't fancy resorting to his shotgun either.

So instead he went for the next best thing. He reached for another of the grenades attached to his torso and ripped the pin our, before rolling it towards the monster. The object had barely left his hand when he was already making a run for the powerful gun lying discarded, and the zombiphant made a move for him. Then, the grenade exploded, right bellow its distended belly. The explosion rocked the street, tearing through its defecated flesh with relative ease and spraying an obscene amount of blood across anything in range. The blast didn't kill the beast though, but it did severely wound it and delay its action long enough for Dean to grab the rifle up and turn to face his undead opponent once more.

The thing seemed to have lost an ocean's worth of blood, but it was still on its feet, and he was running low on rifle ammo and was getting tired from fatigue…he'd need to end this quickly, but he couldn't risk letting it anywhere near the tram car in case he had to use it to escape. Looking around, his gaze settled on a merchandise stand near to the destroyed zoo gates, a lone tape player on its top. He remembered what the late Taylor had told him about the parade music tape.

"Worth a try I suppose," he thought, dropping and rolling away just as a trunk swept through the air at where he was stood half a second before hand. He ran forwards for a distance, trying to get some distance between him and his foe. He turned and bought the rifle to his shoulder and fired another round into the monster's bulk, causing it to bellow and shake in pain, giving him some time to reach the merchandise stand with the tape player on it. With little time to spare, he thrust the tape in, closed the tray and hit 'play', before he retreated to a safe distance.

Within seconds, a rather annoying parade tune began to filter out from the tape player, and the zombiphant turned its attention towards the stand and away from its intended next victim, bellowing in what sounded like an agitated tone (but it was hard to tell, most of its bellowing sounded the same to Dean). Soon, its head was lowered and it thundered towards the stand, the ground shaking so much that Dean was almost knocked off its feet, despite standing at least 15 feet away from the thing.

A second later, it obliterated the stand, cutting the music short and sending discarded merchandise scattering in all directions, and making the beast run head first into the wall behind the stand. It let out another bellow of pain and began to stagger around dumbly, trying to regain its bearings. Dean reached into his pocket and found that he was down to his last 3 shots for the rifle. He quickly loaded them into the gun one by one, even as it was struggling to get steady on its feet again.

"Here goes nothing," he said, taking careful aim. His first shot punched straight through the monster's ribs and out of the other side, making it squeal in pain and turn towards the one responsible for causing it pain. He fired his penultimate shot, the round catching it in its chest as it bellowed and lifted its trunk up to the sky. It stumbled, visibly hurt by the attack, and took a half-step towards him, blood pouring from its most recent wounds. He had one shot left, and took very careful aim, dropping down on one knee, and looking down the rifle sights.

He let it take one more step before he finally pulled the trigger.

The round smacked into the zombiphant's face, right between its eyes, and he saw the pink puff of blood and brain matter erupt from the opposite side of its skull. The beast made a slight shriek and then fell silent; taking a few more slow steps towards Dean, despite the fact he had liquefied most of its brain with that last shot. It tried to pathetically take another swing at him with its trunk, but it stumbled and crashed front-first into the ground, then onto its side, letting off one last deep breath before laying still, blood pooling beneath its form. Dean let out a huge sigh of relief as he slumped down onto his rear, dropping the rifle into the bargain with himself. He wiped his brow down as he sat there.

"Damned freak…" he gasped, getting back to his feet again. Looking around again, he noticed how quiet it had become once more and decided to get out of there before anything else came along. He left the empty rifle where it lay as he approached the abandoned tram car carefully, his shotgun now drawn. Gingerly, he got onto it, finding that it was empty of any sign of life. Pinned to the controls was a hand-written note, which he pulled off and scrutinised closely.

_The extraction point is at the end of the lines. Just activate the tram's power and it'll take you right to us. Hurry up, we're not sure how much longer we can hold this position!_

_The R.P.D_

He might not have been too late after all.

"Thanks again guys," he said, as he found what looked like the lever that worked the tram and set it into forward gear. A few seconds later, it came to life, beginning its slow journey towards Dean's salvation, leaving the rotting corpse of the zombiphant behind. He stared out the window as the tram slowly turned a corner, leaving the zoo well behind.

"I hate zoos."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10: Sanctuary in the Madness

**September 26****th**** 2239 hours**

The tram ride seemed to be taking forever, he thought to himself. He was leaning back on one of the seats, his back to a window. He had a clear view out the other side of the tram, and the streets seemed to be utterly deserted at the moment, but the signs of chaos and unrest were still present: overturned and trashed cars, lamp posts bent out of shape or uprooted from the ground, store fronts with every window smashed out.

And the blood of course. It seemed to be on everything:; the tarmac, the walls of nearby buildings, on the cars, and even on the abandoned benches and newspaper stands. But there were no zombies in sight, and more worryingly, no dead bodies. Maybe they'd all become zombies by now and had wandered off in search of something to eat? His thoughts went back to the proposed root of the entire problem: Umbrella.

Practically everyone in the world knew who Umbrella was, hell; practically everyone had used Umbrella products at one time or another. So if they had developed a virus that could turn living things into hideous monsters (this 'T-Virus' as Taylor had mentioned prior to his untimely death), then the public were sorely mistaken in their view of the corporation, and they had a right to know. But why the hell would they develop this virus, a biological weapon in the first place?

War seemed the most likely answer: after all, what would be better than a biological weapon that not only killed its victims, but bought them back to life and caused them to go looking for fresh meat to infect? It seemed like a reasonable suggestion to make.

His thoughts turned back to the recently departed U.B.C.S member who had accompanied him through the Raccoon Zoo just now. He hardly knew the man, but he seemed like a good enough soldier: a man who didn't hesitate to put his own life on the line for a cause he wouldn't be walking back alive from, and on more than one occasion as well. And now he was dead, and so Dean could live on. But why he deserved to live where so many other people, the residents of Raccoon City had died, was beyond his comprehension.

CRASH!

The tram car suddenly jolted hard and Dean was thrown from his seat onto the aisle floor, nearly banging his head off of the ground.

"Now what?" he half-shouted angrily, getting back to his feet. The tram had come to an abrupt stop suddenly. Looking out of the window, he saw that something that was aflame was blocking the tram lines, and the tram itself was off its tracks, so it wasn't going anywhere soon. Gathering up his gear, he approached the door to leave, but it was jammed tightly shut and wouldn't budge. With a sigh, he bought his foot up and kicked it was hard as he could muster. After a few attempts the door suddenly snapped loose and he nearly fell flat on his face as he followed it out onto the street.

Looking around, the street he was in was practically deserted, aside from the odd car wreck of course. Diverting his sight towards the object blocking the tram line, he saw that it was actually a chopper, crashed nose-first into the ground, preventing anything from going any further along the line. Was this some sort of attempt for a rescue?

Further down the street, another massacre awaited him. A small circle of police cruisers were parked near to the tram lines, over a dozen bodies lying within it. Most of them were of R.P.D officers, so badly mauled it was difficult to tell what they looked like originally. Shell casings and broken weapons such as shotguns and sub-machine guns were littered about the grisly scene, and there were many more bodies, clearly zombies, in and around the barricade. Not far from the tiny massacre was what looked like a green humvee like those used by the U.S Army, complete with a .50 machine gun mounted on the roof. Near to where it was parked where 3 more bodies, these dressed in full camouflage combat gear and armed with M4 rifles. They looked like soldiers, maybe National Guard from the nearby Raccoon Military and Air Base, a few miles out of town. They were all killed in the same manner as the police officers, bitten repeatedly on the torso and neck areas. A fourth body was lying in the mount for the .50 gun in the humvee, his upper body covered in small cuts and scratches. Probably from being attacked by a flock of crazed crows.

This must have been that extraction point, he thought to himself, surveying the devastation. The helicopter was probably going to air lift out any civilians who made it this far while the cops and soldiers stood guard over the area.

And now they were all dead.

"So much for that marvellous plan," he said aloud, almost deadpan. His sense of optimism was rapidly declining in his present situation. Looking around for anything useful he could perhaps use, he saw that a discarded MP5 sub-machine gun was lying near one of the fresh corpses. Although there were a couple of M4's about, he'd decided against carrying around one of the bulky assault rifles as he thought it'd be a bit bulky considering what he already carried with him, but an MP5 was a rather light weapon, and the extra firepower couldn't hurt. Shrugging, he stooped down to pick it up.

Ejecting the magazine, he found it was only half loaded. Checking over the bodies of the nearby cops, he turned up 6 more clips for the weapon, and slipped them into his side pack, keeping one tucked into his belt for quick and easy access. He felt weird about looting dead bodies, but he didn't have a choice if he wanted to surive this place. The weapon had a shoulder strap luckily, so he slung the S.P.A.S 12 over his back and kept the SMG to hand, intending to use it as long as the ammo lasted for, then he'd get rid of it, as he didn't want to weigh himself down too much. It also had a light attached to the underside, which could come in useful in the future. Checking through the parked police cruisers, he turned up little of use, aside from a couple of spare handgun magazines and some shotgun shells, which he pocketed.

Looking around him as he stood in the middle of the street, he spied the top of the St. Michael's clock tower in the near distance. It was only a few blocks at the most, and he could cover that in a short time if he got his ass into gear. Holding the SMG in front of him, he took off at a slow jog, keeping a careful watch out for any potential nearby threats. Behind him, he heard more moaning and looked back to see the dead bodies rising up once again, their hungry eyes watching him go.

The St. Michael's Clock Tower was just across the street from him, the great tower that stretched out into the sky from within a concrete courtyard and a small network of buildings which the clock tower staff lived in on a day to day basis. The clock had been working for years, as far as he knew, but right not it was permanently stuck at just before midnight, perhaps due to the current situation. Maybe when they re-activated the clock and it struck midnight, that's when the extraction chopper would come to pick them up.

From where he was standing, the place looked abandoned, a far cry from the rest of the city and other places he'd been to since yesterday. With a glance across both sides of the street, he made a dash towards the double doors at the front of the building and wrenched one of them open, taking one last look around before he stepped inside. The street was almost totally abandoned, a few solitary zombies too far away to be an immediate threat to him being the only other occupants aside from him. He had a good feeling that he'd be safe inside this place. But still, he had no idea what would be waiting inside for him, and he didn't have someone else to watch his back for him now. Sighing heavily, he pulled open the doors and stepped inside.

Looking around, he was now standing in an open courtyard complete with several statues and a few hedge formations complete with a large ivory fountain in the centre near the main doors, which had stopped running a long time ago. Standing below the main clock tower, he glanced up at it and was impressed by the architecture and condition of the structure. From what he'd read, the clock tower was one of the very first buildings built when Raccoon City was first founded. A flock of black crows took off from their perch on top of the tower and began to ominously circle in the sky. Following his past experiences with crows in the city, he quickly made his way towards a pair of double doors and pushed through into the tower's lobby.

The place was very finely decorated indeed, with a pristine marble floor, a huge green staircase leading up to the second floor, a fine oak table sitting to the left of the stairs, and the roof of the hall was gilded and decorated in golden paint and trim, which looked spotless even after so many years since its original construction. A large amount of cobwebs seemed to be accumulating in the upper corners of the ceiling, but he guessed that was normal in an old building like this. The U.B.C.S certainly picked a nice place for extraction, he thought to himself.

Looking around again, he decided that it wouldn't hurt to go and check out the rest of the area to see if there was anything useful he or anyone else who could use. Also, the others could already have gotten here ahead of him and were just waiting for him to catch up. Far as he could see, there were two doors, one on either side of the lobby, so he chose to look in the door closest to him first of all, a pair of wooden double doors.

Inside was a lavish oaken dining table, set out for at least 10 people, with silver candlesticks and cutlery already set out in front of each space. At the far end of the room was a large fire-place, with a bronze mantle and filled with the ashes of previous fires set there. The room looked abandoned, so he was about to make a move when he heard a familiar clicking noise. Quickly but carefully he glanced up and saw another of those hairy bug things that he'd last seen at the construction site clinging to the ceiling above the middle of the table. It didn't seem to have noticed him yet. It just lingered there, making a strange sucking noise with its mandibles.

"Not again," he whispered, taking aim to try out his new weapon. Flicking the setting to 'burst', he aimed and fired 3 rounds into the things torso. There was barely no recoil from the SMG, apart from the stock forcing its way into his shoulder slightly. The mutant bug shuddered under the impacts and blood splattered onto the well-furnished table, before it made a bee-line towards the cop, who was quick to fire another couple of bursts onto it, dropping it dead and causing it to fall onto the table with a crack, scattering candlesticks and cutlery everywhere on the floor.

Almost as quickly as that first one had died, a second one suddenly appeared from behind the table at the far end of the room and began to scuttle towards the cop at a decent pace. Not wanting to waste anymore time or ammo, he quickly made a dash for a nearby door set into a small alcove and threw himself inside, slamming the door behind him. The door shook a little and there were some scratching and shrieking sounds from the other side, but otherwise it held up to the assault. Looking about, he was in another well-furnished room, this one with a large grand piano on the left side of the room, and a set of large glass windows along the right hand side. Outside it was dark and most of the street lights were out, but he could still pick out small blazes and the outlines of numerous human figures wandering about out there. Across from him was yet another door, this one a plain wooden one set into the wall. He slowly approached it, suddenly dropping into a crouch when he realized he could hear whispering voices from the other side: and human whispers, honest-to-god living souls. Had the rest of Taylor's U.B.C.S companions already made it here?

He crept closer to the door and put his ear up against it to try and make out what was being discussed on the other side.

"It's too risky!" cried a male voice.

"Well it's better than just staying here to die," replied a calm female voice.

All of the U.B.C.S members he'd seen were male, so he could reasonably assume it wasn't them cooped up on the other side of the door. So who could it be then?

"Sorry, but I'm not leaving this place either way!" chipped in another male voice, this one sounding a lot older than the first.

"Jesus Roger, you keep that act up and it'll get you killed," replied the female.

"Say what you like!" snapped the man now known as Roger. "My wife is buried here and it'll be a cold day in hell before I leave this city!"

"Well with that shit going on outside, I wouldn't be surprised if hell had already frozen over," replied another voice. Soon, it all descended into a heated argument and it was difficult to tell who was saying what anymore. Sounded like a ragtag band of civilians had taken up base here. Sighing to himself, Dean rapped on the door loudly.

The room fell into immediate silence for a few seconds.

"Somebody in there?" called out Dean, hoping for a response. "I'm human, in case you're being careful."

"I knew it!" cried out the first male. "Help came after all!" A second later, the sound of a key turning in a lock was heard and the door suddenly half-opened as the face of a brown-haired man in his early 20's appeared from the gap. His green eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and his face was coated in grime and dried blood. He was wearing a white flannel shirt and faded denim jeans that were splattered with dried blood. He looked past Dean and around the room, and his face suddenly dropped.

"Well…where's the rest of you?" he asked, as if expecting more than one person to turn up.

"Just me," replied Dean, matter-of-fact. "Are you going to let me in then or not?"

"Oh fine, come on then," the other man sighed, opening the door fully and stepping back inside. Looking in, Dean could see it was a small chapel, complete with a few small pews and an alter decorated with deep-red cloth at the far end. To his immediate right was a small desk complete with an old-fashioned type-writer and a large grey storage chest like the one he'd seen back at the station. But he was more interested in the other people in the room. People who were still alive and not trying to bite his face off, despite all the shit that was going on outside.

He could count 5 people, not including the young man who had let him in. There was a fairly tall man with blonde cropped hair and wearing a business suit, complete with white shirt and black tie. He was sitting on one of the seats near to the back of the room, along with a young woman several inches shorter than him, who had a shock of vibrant red hair that reached down to her shoulders. She was also wearing a business suit like the tall man, so it was possible that they both worked in the same profession. When Dean stepped into the room, they both looked up to stare at him, their facial expressions remaining somewhat down-trodden.

Standing a bit closer to Dean was another man, about the same height as Dean but with a stockier figure. He was wearing a white vest, exposing his muscular arms, along with brown slacks and white trainers. Dean could see that there was a weapon tucked into the man's belt, and from what he could tell, it looked like a .357 Colt Python, rather serious firepower for a civilian to be carrying about.

And finally, the last two survivors in the cramped room were stood nearer to the door, consisting of an elderly man with graying hair and green eyes, wearing a tan-colored jacket, a white shirt underneath that and black dress trousers. He was holding onto a young blonde girl in a protective manner, who looked barely 17. She was wearing a pink vest top, along with green shorts and blue and white trainers, paired with white socks that went up to just below her knees. Her green eyes were red and sore, as if she had been crying recently. Chances were they were father and daughter.

The young man in the flannel shirt closed and locked the door they had come in through and turned towards Dean.

"You're pretty lucky to have made it this far," he said, walking over to sit himself down on the alter. "You a cop or something?"

"Actually, I am," replied Dean. "Although it looks like I'm the only one left in this god-forsaken place." A few frightened whispers went around.

"What?" spluttered the old man with his daughter. "That can't be possible! How can _all_ of Raccoon's police officers be dead? Every one of them?" Dean glared towards the man.

"Well excuse me sir, next time I get the chance I'll ask the Commissioner to make sure our new training regime includes how to battle crazy bastards trying to rip your arms off and who can take a dozen shots to the chest before going down." The old man looked hurt, while Dean continued to just glare at him in a threatening manner. He wasn't in the mood for this, especially not after getting this far.

"Come on now, children," said the tall man in the suit, getting to his feet. "Let's not fight, shall we?" The tense atmosphere lessened somewhat, as Dean sat himself down on one of the seats and stretched his legs out. "Anyways, I'm Sam. And this is my work mate Angela, we both work, or rather used to work, at City Hall."

The red head gave Dean a little wave, and he nodded back in acknowledgement. The man now known as Sam indicated the old man that Dean had just scolded moments before. "This is Roger, and his daughter Paula. They live not far from here, and they were actually here before the rest of us were." Dean looked towards the two of them, making eye contact with the young girl, noticing her half-terrified expression. Poor girl, he thought. She doesn't deserve to be caught up in this. None of us do.

"I'm Joe, by the way," said the stocky man with the .357 revolver, appearing in front of Dean suddenly to give his hand a firm shake. "I used to own the gas station near City Hall, but those freaks killed most of my customers and so I had to get the hell out of there."

"Looks like you made a wise choice then," replied Dean. Finally, he turned to face the man with the flannel shirt standing by the door.

"Oh, I'm Zac," said the man, suddenly realizing that Dean was looking at him. "I'm a student from Raccoon University. I was on my way to a lecture the other day when I was attacked by those freaks and made a run for it. Next thing I knew, I ended up here." Silence followed.

"Um, sorry if it sounds a little daft, but how much firepower do you have on you? Because we aren't exactly well-armed ourselves," Zac then explained, indicating a Glock 18 handgun that was tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

Without a word, Dean unslung his shotgun and placed it on one of the benches, along with his SMG, and then drew his Beretta and showed it to everyone in the room before he holstered it once more.

"And I have these grenades," he said, indicating the bandolier he was currently wearing on his person. An impressed whistle went up from next to him.

"Pretty serious firepower for just one guy," said Roger suddenly from his corner. "That all yours?"

"No, some of it I got from people who wouldn't need it anymore."

"So you stole it from someone's corpse?" came the reply, a hint of disgust in its tone. Dean glared at the old man sat in the corner once more once more.

"It didn't help the previous owners much in the first place," he explained. "Better off helping someone else than just going to waste in the street."

"Well it's a good thing you took the stuff either way," said Joe suddenly, attempting to defuse the tension between the other people in the room. "I used up most of the ammo for this just getting here," he explained, drawing his .357. "Those bastards kept getting back up."

"Go for headshots," explained Dean flatly. "It kills them instantly, but still you don't want to waste time killing every single one."

"Well I found this on a dead guy in the bedroom on the other side of the clock tower area," said Zac suddenly, drawing the Glock and holding it in both hands. "I've never used a gun though." A few others shied away from the young man now he was holding the weapon in plain sight. "Hey relax, the safety's on."

"Sorry to be a pain," Dean asked, sitting down on one of the benches, "but do you guys happen to have any food with you?" He was feeling drained, despite the fact it had only been a few hours since he'd last eaten. A few of the survivors looked amongst one another, before Sam suddenly reached behind one of the pews and pulled out some plastic-wrapped food.

"We were able to salvage a few of these from a convenience store on the corner," he said, passing Dean some sandwiches that were covered in shrink-wrapped plastic. "And they're a bit warm now."

"I don't really care," Dean replied, already ripping open the plastic of a chicken sandwich and taking a huge bite. "Anything could be considered haute cuisine right now," he explained, with a mouthful of bread and chicken. The others were probably appalled at the way he was eating right now, but he didn't care, as long as he wasn't hungry.

"So erm, Dean was it?" asked Angela from her seat, the first time she'd spoken since the cop had arrived. "How'd you end up here in the first place? Cause you look pretty tired."

As he wolfed down his meal, he explained the chain of events that lead him here, from the barricade massacre through to his sojourn in the R.P.D, his encounters with the U.B.C.S soldiers lead by Nick Johnson, and his trip through the Raccoon City Zoo, up to when he finally reached the Clock Tower, and about the proposed U.B.C.S evacuation scheme.

"You were with Umbrella soldiers?" asked Sam with a hint of interest. "Why would Umbrella send armed soldiers into the city?"

"They said they came in to rescue the civilians," replied Dean, finishing off his sandwich and reaching for a bottle of water that someone else had passed him. "According to them, some virus is the cause of all this mess."

"That so?" chipped in Zac, who was sat on the storage chest now, kicking at the floor with his toes. "Seems a bit strange still that Umbrella sent people in. Why not the military?"

"Cause they're too busy keeping the whole town quarantined, fool," said Roger suddenly from the corner, earning him a scowl from the younger man. Dean didn't mention the fact that Umbrella could be the cause for the zombie virus going around, since they'd done so much for this community over the years. Were it not for Umbrella, Raccoon City wouldn't be where it was now, growth wise.

"Who knows?" he said instead, tossing away the plastic wrapping from the sandwich he'd just eaten. "Thanks for that, by the way," he said to Sam and Angela, who offered him a smile in return.

"So this place is where the extraction chopper's supposed to come?" asked Joe from near to the door. "Seems convenient that we chose to take shelter here then."

"Yeah," chipped in Zac, "but half of the doors in this place are locked tight and zombies aren't the only things lurking about here."

"Such as?" asked Dean, hoping that it couldn't get worse than zombie elephants and lions.

"Spiders," said Zac simply. "Really big spiders. Want to go see for yourself?"

"I'll…take your word for it," said Dean with a little smirk. "So anyways, how long have you all been here?"

"A few hours at the most," said Zac, getting up from his seat. "I was at the nearby Hospital visiting a friend of mine who had some disease, and then next thing I know these crazy bastards come in through the front doors and try to kill me. I managed to get here though, but Roger and Paula were already here."

"We live just down the street," said Roger suddenly from his place in the corner. "These crazed people turned up and killed my neighbour, and then there were loads more of them on the streets. We ended up here because, well, I thought it would be a safe bet." As he recounted his tale, his eyes had a far-away look in them, like he wasn't all there.

"Yeah," said Zac suddenly, bringing Dean's attention back to him. "Everyone else just kind of arrived over time. Joe was the last one to get here before you, about an hour ago. And now that brings our survivor tally up to 7."

"Wonder if we're the only ones left now?" said Angela from where she was stood next to Sam, in a somewhat pessimistic manner.

"Oh, I'm sure they'll be others left," said Zac hopefully. "There has to be, right?"

"Yeah," replied Dean, trying to keep their spirits up. "There will be."

Except he didn't quite believe that statement himself. Before, there were screams and gunshots from outside in the streets, indicating that people were fighting for their lives out there, except that during his walk to the Clock Tower it had become deathly silent. The only sounds he could hear was the wind blowing through the abandoned streets and the occasional caw of crows circling overhead. For all he knew, these were the last 7 people left alive in Raccoon City.

_But if only 7 of us survives, that's good by me._

"Either way," said Dean loudly, getting their attention, "we have to look out for ourselves. It sounds like a cruel thing to say, but we can't do anything for anyone else still alive in this city. We have to sit tight and see this through to the end."

He shifted in his position, trying to get comfortable, but it was hard when he was lying on a hard, flat wooden surface. Some time had passed since he had first arrived at the clock tower, some hours at least, and he had convinced the others to hold on to see if anyone else turned up before they went looking for a way to re-activate the main clock itself to signal the escape chopper. He and Zac agreed to take turns in watching the door, to listen for any other potential survivors that could turn up at the tower, and to make sure that nothing undead could get in. When it wasn't his shift, he tried to catch as much sleep as he could on the uncomfortable wooden pews. But he still couldn't sleep properly, full of worry for the other U.B.C.S mercenaries he'd been separated from before. Were they OK? Or were they all dead by now?

Could the same be said of his partner Ben? He'd escaped from the station with others using a riot van that was still in the parking lot, so there was a good chance he could make it to a relatively safe place. Or was he dead as well? Doomed to join the legions of undead wandering the streets? He quickly shook off that last thought.

_Stop that, he'll be fine. Ben's a good cop: he'll make it out of here, even if it is without you._

"Dean?" asked a voice as someone prodded him in the side. "Dean!" came the voice more forcefully, and he was prodded a bit harder this time. He finally shook off his fatigue and sat himself up, looking at Zac through his tired eyes.

"My turn?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Sure is," came the reply. "Sorry you couldn't get a more comfortable rest period."

"Ah, forget it. Anything's fine by me in this situation," he replied, getting to his feet and stretching out, the aching in his limbs now gone for the moment. "What time is it?"

"Just after 3 in the morning," replied the younger man. "How times flies by, eh?"

"Geez," Dean said in reply. "Seems like time doesn't flow right in this place now. Anyways, anything interesting?"

"Not really, just a lot of moaning out there. You've got to wonder what those things are up to."

"Not much," replied the cop, checking his Beretta. "They're just looking for someone to eat." Zac seemed to visibly shudder at Dean's last observation.

"Jesus, how the hell could things could do downhill so fast?" asked Zac, pacing back and forth. "I mean, yesterday everything was fine. Then the next minute, bang! Total chaos."

"Beats me," replied Dean, before his ears perked up at a familiar sound. From where they were, it sounded like muffled thuds, like someone punching a plaster wall over and over again, but Dean was experienced enough to know what the sounds really were.

Gunfire.

"Dean?" asked Zac. The cop shushed him with a wave of his hand.

"You hear that?" he asked. Zac's brows furrowed as he listened intently. Suddenly there was another short burst of popping, and his expression changed.

"Someone else survived then!" he half-cried, stirring a few of the room's other inhabitants out of their slumber. A couple of them blinked and looked about, and suddenly perked up at the sounds of even more gunfire.

"What's that?" asked Joe as he pulled out his Colt Python.

"That sounds like it's coming from out in the street area!" said Dean suddenly, grabbing for his SMG. "I'm going out to have a look. Stay here!" He began to head towards the door, before someone's hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"Hold on," said Joe. "At least let me give you a helping hand!" He cocked his .357 to show that he meant business. Dean looked up at him for a while, before he nodded in response.

"Fine, just don't use all of your ammo at once."

When they stepped out into the courtyard, the gunfire sounded a lot closer now, maybe just outside on the street. "Come on!" shouted Dean, running towards the main doors and pushing them open. He and Joe stepped outside to see a rather surprising sight.

The large mob of zombies wasn't a surprise, as they'd grown accustomed to the sight of them over the last day's events. There were about two dozen of them, with half that number lying dead among their feet. What was more surprising was the presence of more survivors. Between the zombie crowd and the two survivors were two men, their backs to them, and firing into the crowd wildly. They were both males, and the white and red octagonal symbol on their back with swords crossed through it gave away their identity, to Dean at least.

"U.B.C.S members!" he thought, noticing that one of them was using an M4 and the other his SIG Pro handgun. They weren't doing much to kill the zombies at the minute, so Dean raised his SMG and fired off a burst into the mob, scoring a couple of headshots. One of the U.B.C.S turned to look behind him, looking genuinely surprised to see another human being standing there. He had closely-cropped brown hair, blue eyes and a decent amount of stubble around his chin.

Joe joined in the fight, firing his Colt Python at an elderly man that was getting a bit too close to the other mercenary. The zombie's head disappeared in a puff of red. Joe switched his aim and dropped a few more zombies with the rest of his cylinder. A fast-moving female zombie suddenly grabbed onto one of the mercenaries, but Dean saw this and fired a single round, which clipped the creature's temple, causing it to release its hold and drop to the floor dead. The man looked back at Dean and nodded a thanks, before he unslung something from his shoulder and aimed it at one of the few remaining zombies. It looked like nothing Dean had seen before, but it was held in one hand and looked distinctly cylindrical in appearance. The man pulled the trigger; there was a puff of smoke, and a dart-like object flew out from the weapon's barrel and punched into the zombie's torso, doing little immediate damage. The monster only flinched slightly in response.

Dean could make out a little red light that was blinking on the thing's chest, and then 2 seconds later there was a sudden explosion that swallowed up 3 zombies in the vicinity, splattering body parts everywhere. The mercenary smirked to himself as his companion gunned down the last two zombies with his M4. As it all fell silent once more, they both nearly collapsed onto their knees, panting for breath. The one with blue eyes turned to face Dean and Joe.

"Th-thanks for the help," he panted, holstering his weapons. "Small miracle that there's still some live people around here."

"Yeah," replied the other man with the M4. He had raven black hair slick with grease and dirt, along with brown eyes and slightly tanned skin. His uniform was ripped and torn in numerous places, like he'd been to hell and back. "We were beginning to think that no-one else was alive in this hell hole."

"Well, you thought wrong," replied Joe, who was currently kicking at the zombie's corpses, checking to see that they were permanently dead. "Anyone else with you?"

"No, just us," replied the brown-haired man. "We were with a load of other civilians but they were all killed by those zombies."

"So much for our grand mission then," said the other man. "Oh, we're with-"

"The U.B.C.S," replied Dean before the mercenary could say anything else. "I know, I was with some of your people earlier."

"You were?!" asked the black-haired man, his eyes wide with interest. "Who?"

"Nicholas Johnson of Delta Platoon," explained Dean. "Ring a bell?"

"Yeah," said the other mercenary, crossing his arms in front of him. "We're with Bravo platoon, except for all we know we're the only ones still alive from that unit. Where's the Lieutenant though?"

"No idea," replied Dean, to the point. "We got separated on the way here when something attacked us," he explained, being careful not to bring back any memories of that one-eyed brute that had nearly killed him hours beforehand. "There were a few others with him though, so I'm sure they'll get here in one piece soon."

"Yeah, that's good," replied the brown-haired man. "Oh, I'm Corporal Campbell, by the way, and this is Private Hopkins," he said, indicating his companion, who was stood close by watching with interest.

_This guy has the same last name as Ben. Wonder if he's still alive._

"Hey, can we go inside before anymore of those things turn up?" asked Joe from close by.

"Yeah, sure," replied Dean, snapped out of his thoughts. "Strength in numbers, after all."

The two new arrivals stood just in the door way, as if they were to actually enter the room the place would instantly become over-cramped. The other survivors just watched them with intent as they introduced themselves, probably examining them to see how much firepower they were carrying on their persons. After a quick suggestion by Campbell, they had relocated into the more spacious piano room, where they all spread out, minding their own business or gathering in their own small 'cliques'. Sam and Angela were crouched together on a small couch by the windows, talking amongst themselves. Dean wondered if they were a couple.

Joe had sat himself down in front of the piano and was actually playing a tune that Dean recognized as Moonlight Sonata: Dean never figured the stocky gas station owner as a musical person, but then again, looks could be deceiving. Zac was leaning against the piano itself, nodding in appreciation of the man's musical skills. Campbell was stood by the door that lead into the garden, his hand close to where his pistol was holstered, obviously listening for danger. Roger and his daughter were still huddled together in a far corner, and he was whispering comforting words to her, as she'd started crying again. Dean was worried that the little group was beginning to lose hope.

The black-haired mercenary, Hopkins, was sat cross-legged in the corner by the door into the dining room, writing into a little pocket-book. Every now and then, he'd glance over towards the young girl with her father. Dean hadn't heard or seen anything of the bug monster that he'd ran from in the dining room, but he had a feeling it was still in there, waiting for a chance to pounce. With a sigh, he approached the crouched mercenary to strike up some sort of conversation with him.

"Hey," he said, causing the man to look up.

"Oh," he said, quickly packing his pocket-book away. "I'm sorry, I never got your name."

"Dean," replied the cop, extending a friendly hand to shake. The other man accepted it after a slight hesitation.

"I'm Adam," replied the mercenary with a forced grin. The poor guy looked like he was about to snap at any moment. "You said you were with Nick?"

"I was," replied Dean, sliding down into a seated position next to the mercenary. "But then we got attacked and separated by some one-eyed monster and I had to make my own way here." The other man's eyes widened at the mention of the one-eyed monster.

"Well I can safely say that we haven't seen anything like that, just plenty of zombies."

"Trust me, they're the least of your worries," said Dean, remembering those giant bug things and the zombified residents of the Raccoon Zoo. Seeing that Adam had fallen quiet once again, he changed the subject. "Why do you keep looking at the blonde? You like her or something?"

"I'm not looking at her!" snapped the man defensively.

"Come on, I'm not stupid Adam," replied Dean with a smirk. "I'm a cop, in case you didn't know, so I can tell when someone happens to be lying to me." Adam looked up at Dean, biting his lip a few times before he replied, his voice low and somewhat sheepish in tone.

"She reminds me of my sister."

"Your sister?" asked Dean.

"Yeah, until she starved to death," replied Adam. He lowered his head towards the floor. "We were on holiday in Africa years ago, but then these guerilla terrorists just kidnapped us from our hotel room one night, held us against our will for weeks."

"Damn…" muttered Dean as he listened.

"They beat and tortured us every day, starved us, used us as leverage against the American forces trying to root them out. In the end, she died. She couldn't handle the beatings and the lack of food." Adam bit his lip again and breathed in deeply before he continued. "Then out of the blue, these men in full combat gear force their way in kill all of my captives and release me. Then they say that they worked for Umbrella, and they had a new job in mind for me. And here I am."

"Wait, you said Umbrella saved your life and just offered you a place in their ranks?" asked Dean, trying to comprehend that last statement. "Why you'd say yes in the first place though?"

"Cause the alternative doesn't bear thinking about," Adam explained, miming putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger. "Although if I knew I'd end up fighting flesh eating monsters that should only exist in the movies, I'd have taken that bullet to the head."

"So does Umbrella just pick up U.B.C.S recruits from anywhere?" asked Dean. He remembered Taylor saying that he'd been approached by Umbrella who offered him a place in their ranks, but now wondered if the man was even telling the whole story.

"I don't know all of the details," Adam explained, "but from what I knew, most of us were ex-soldiers or people on death row. That scout in Delta, Taylor his name was I think, murdered his own sergeant when he was in the Green Berets, got sentenced to death for it too, until Umbrella pulled him out at the last minute."

Dean let that sink in for the moment. So were all of Umbrella's soldiers just ex-criminals? What was the chance of any of them attempting an escape from their employer's charge? "Why the hell would Umbrella employ people that dangerous though?"

"Cause no one would give a shit if we vanished, that's why," said another voice suddenly from above them. "Campbell was stood above them, listening to them for a long time apparently. "So yeah, a few murderers and other prison scumbags go missing suddenly, no big loss."

"Hey, I'm not judging or anything," said Dean, getting up, trying to avoid any type of confrontation.

"Oh yes you were," said Campbell in a sinister manner, getting up in Dean's face. "You cops are all the same, you know what? I killed a pig once in my 'career', and there's nothing stopping me from doing it again."

He walked up closer to Dean now, staring him right in the eyes. From that distance, he could make out the blood-shot vessels in his eyeballs, and a hint of something else there, it looked like a touch of insanity, like this man was ready to just explode in a murderous fury any moment. By now the other people in the room had taken note of the confrontation going on and had risen to their feet.

_Geez, looks like you can't be trusted then…_

"You know," said Dean, disguising the slight fear in his voice, "threatening a police officer's an arrestable offence. Just as well for you I left my handcuffs back at my apartment. But even if I had them I wouldn't do anything, because this isn't the fucking time or the place to start fighting with each other, unless of course we keep doing this until the zombies come knocking, and I for one would like to be gone if they do come."

His little speech said, he walked away from the mercenary and sat himself down by the piano, glaring at Campbell. The man just sneered and shook his head before he walked over to the centre of the room and addressed the other survivors.

"OK then people, in case you didn't know this Clock Tower is the designated extraction point for our people," he explained, hands behind his back. "And according to our officer friend here, more of our people are on the way here, so once they have arrived we'll start up the clock and evacuate out of here."

"That won't be so easy," said Zac, chiming in. "Roger here insists that he won't be leaving this city, cause his wife's buried here."

"Really?" asked Adam.

"That's right," said the old man, now standing up from his position in the corner. "My wife loved this town and I promised to her on her deathbed that I'd never leave this town for as long as I lived."

"Even if it's over-run with zombies?" asked Campbell with a scoff, shaking his head.

"Sorry, but I made a promise!" replied the old man back.

"And that'll get you killed if you're unlucky," replied Campbell, taking a step towards him. "Wouldn't your wife want you to live through all of this?"

"Sorry, my mind's made up."

"Right, listen you jumped up-" began Campbell, before he was stopped by Sam, who unexpectedly got to his feet and placed himself between the two arguing survivors.

"Enough!" he shouted, making everyone shut up and look at him. "We won't get anywhere arguing like this! Look, he said he doesn't want to go, so don't try to convince him otherwise!" Campbell just growled and paced around the room a little, before turning to his companion. He walked over and muttered something into his ear, and then both of them disappeared through the door that lead outside. There was a tense silence for a short while.

"What was that all about?" asked Angela rhetorically.

"Some big help these guys are gonna be…" muttered Joe.

"Stay here," said Dean to the group, getting to his feet and walking over to the door. Opening it slightly, he peeked outside and saw the two mercenaries stood over near to the front gates, talking to each other. Actually, it looked more like they were arguing, as Campbell's voice was raised and he was making a lot of aggressive hand gestures.

"Fuck him! He's just one old guy!" seethed the older man.

"But none of them deserve to be left behind!" protested Adam, looking strained as he said that.

"Oh? And who's going to drag him onto the chopper by the scruff of his neck? You?" Adam sighed to himself and looked down at the ground dejectedly. Campbell clamped a hand down on his partner's shoulder and spoke again, his voice low and deadly.

"Listen, I know our orders were to extract any civilians we found, with Umbrella employees a top priority…"

Dean pondered this new revelation quickly in his mind. If Umbrella had sent these armed soldiers in, it would make sense that they'd try to save as many of their valuable employees as possible. But half of the town worked for Umbrella, so how could 120 mercenaries extract that many in such a short period of time?

"But I don't give a shit about all of that now. All I care about is our lives. Everyone else can stay here and be eaten alive for all I care."

"How can you say that?!" replied Adam, his voice raising as he grabbed his comrade by the shoulders. "I seem to remember when we first met that you were all about playing the noble hero; making up for your past mistakes?"

"Time's have changed since then!" seethed Campbell, shoving the other mercenary away from him. "I've seen enough weird shit in this town to last a thousand lifetimes, and I don't want to stay here much longer!"

"But what about them?" shouted Adam back, indicating towards the door they had just left through. Dean ducked back to make sure he wasn't spotted. "Sorry, but the thought of leaving just one of them behind makes me sick to my core. You really should-"

"Is this about that girl who looks like your sister?" retorted Campbell with a sneer. Adam fell silent at that remark, his head held low, but the other mercenary pressed his advantage. "You really are pathetic, trying to make up for your past screw-ups with your deeds today. Nothing can change the fact your sister's dead. Get over yourself!" He turned and walked away a few paces before he turned back to face him once more.

"Look, I don't care anymore. As soon as that evacuation chopper turns up, I'm out of here, regardless of anyone else."

Dean had heard and seen enough. He slowly moved back from his hiding spot and re-entered the piano room to be met by the hopeful eyes of the other survivors gathered there. Sam was the first to approach the cop, obviously eager to hear what had just gone down.

"Well?" he asked. Dean gave him a long stare before he replied with a casual lie.

"Nothing, they're just arguing about what to do." He didn't think to mention the fact that one of the armed mercenaries outside was planning on leaving them behind to die instead of trying their best to get them out of there in one piece like they expected. Doing so might have racked up the tension and unease and made matters much more problematic in itself. What if some of the civilians got jumpy and tried to take out Campbell? There'd be a bloodbath. He'd have to try and deal with things some way, but how?

There was a sudden creaking that made half of the assembled people in the room jump. They looked back towards the door to see the two mercenaries enter, Campbell leading, looking a bit too pleased with himself, and Hopkins behind him, looking towards the floor in a dejected manner.

"Don't worry people," said Campbell confidently, "as soon as our friends get here we're leaving."

"That's a relief," breathed Zac.

"Yeah, but we have a problem," said Roger suddenly from the back of the group. "If you say that the chopper will only come when the bell's rung, we have to get up into the main tower first. It's been locked off for God knows how long."

"Well in that case, we can go look for a way to unlock it," replied Campbell matter-of-factly, gritting his teeth slightly. Dean sensed that the man was getting a little too impatient with being stuck with all these civilians.

"Hey, it's not safe outside this room!" snapped Angela suddenly. "You heard what Zac said about those huge spiders-"

_After what I've been through so far, these giant spiders are the least of my worries, _thought Dean to himself.

"And we're well armed, in case you didn't notice, sugar," retorted Campbell, sounding even more impatient than before. Dean was quickly changing his first impressions of this guy with every minute he was stuck in a room with him. "So, private, shall we get going?"

The two mercenaries were making their way towards the door into the dining room. No one made an attempt to dissuade them otherwise. Apart from-

"Hold on!"

They both turned to find themselves face to face with the stern face of Dean Travers, his salvaged MP5 in his grasp. "If you're going to clear this place out, at least let me give you a helping hand. Three guns are better than two, right?" Campbell seemed to be mulling something over before he finally let out a long drawn-out sigh.

"Fine. Just don't get in my way. My trigger finger's getting itchy."

_Arrogant bastard…_

"Hold on!" said Sam as he got to his feet. "What if something comes when you're gone? We should at least keep one well-trained guy with us!"

"He's right," said Joe, getting to his feet. "I know how to use this, but I'm not a pro, and besides, I doubt Zac'll be much help."

"Hey!" piped up Zac from over by the piano.

"No offence buddy," responded Joe, looking at the young man in an attempt to avoid upsetting him.

"We could always go hide in the alter room again," suggested Angela. "It kept us pretty safe the whole time we were in there."

"Oh lord not that room again!" half-cried Roger. "I swear if I have to be in there for 5 more minutes-"

"Oh daddy don't!" said the man's daughter suddenly, the very first time that Dean had heard her speak the whole time he'd been in the clock tower. Her voice was somewhat high-pitched and racked with terror, understandable in a time like this. Her father looked at her with considerable concern before he started whispering reassuring words into her ear.

"Look, it won't be for that long, and it is better than just waiting out in the open, right?" suggested Adam, who was now standing in the middle of the now assembled group of survivors, his previously negative body language now gone. Looked like his concern for these people was beginning to come through, thought Dean.

"Allright fine," said Sam begrudgingly. "You'd better get back before one of us goes stir crazy though," he warned, smiling. One by one, the weary survivors filed back into the alter room, some of them grumbling in opposition, but going along anyways. Zac was the last to enter, and before he closed the door, he looked out at the three men still outside.

"Be careful guys. You got a lot of people relying on you." He went to close the door before Dean stopped him.

"Zac!"

"What?"

"My shotgun's still in there," the cop explained. Keep a hold of that in case of an emergency.

"I don't know a thing about handguns, never mind a damned shotgun!" protested Zac. "I'd probably blow my own arms off with it or something."

"Hey, it's not rocket science to use it," affirmed Dean. "Just aim and shoot, then pump the handgrip to load the next round. And if you need to load any more rounds-" he reached into his pocket and withdrew a handful of 12 gauge shells before he walked up to Zac and planted them into his open hand." "Just load these into the space behind the grip. Got that?"

"Y-yeah, I think so," replied Zac meekly. "Just be careful, ok guys?"

And with that, the old wooden door was pulled shut, closely followed by the sound of a key turning in the lock. There was a long silence as Dean turned back towards the two mercenaries in the room with him.

"Come on," said Campbell, with a voice with practically no discernable tone in it at all, "Let's get this over with."

With one last cry, the insect monster plunged to the cold, hard ground, blood pumping out of the numerous bullet holes pock marking its bulbous torso.

"What the fuck was that?!" cried Adam, half in hysterics as he eyed the ventilated body cautiously.

They had agreed to clear out the dining room, despite Dean's alarming comments on giant bug like monsters hiding out in there. There was only one left, and their combined firepower had easily overwhelmed the monster before it go too close to them, but that still didn't stop Adam from turning ashen white at the sight of the thing as it clawed across the ceiling towards them.

"One fucked up insect, that's what," replied Dean, as he watched Campbell shoot the thing's eyes out just to make sure. He wiped away some green blood from his fatigues before making his way over to the doors into the main entrance hall.

"Come on," he said, sounding more impatient than before. The other two looked at each other before following after him. Dean was beginning to show a little concern for Adam, partly because he looked like he wouldn't be able to last through this living nightmare, and partly because he had to be stuck with a potentially dangerous man like Campbell. But for now they chose to follow after him.

"The tower's up there," said Dean simply as he pointed up towards the top of the large staircase in the main hall. "I haven't checked it out yet though."

"Fine, we'll just have to get it done now," replied Campbell, holstering his SIG Pro and pulling out the strange weapon Dean had seen him using earlier outside on the streets. Looking at it a bit more closely, he could make out a small Umbrella logo stamped on the side of the barrel. So it looked like the Pharmaceutical Corporation was developing armaments as well…

"What is that, by the way?" asked Dean as he eyed the weapon.

"It's a Mine Launcher," said Adam from behind them, matter-of-factly. "It fires off explosive darts that detonate after a short time period or when a moving object comes within 7 feet of the initial explosive. It's only a prototype though, so only a few of the unit were issued with one."

"Wouldn't be surprised if I was the only living U.B.C.S member left with one," said Campbell, already walking towards the bottom of the stairs. The others followed quickly after him. Ascending the steps, they were cautious in case another zombie was to show its ugly face to them, but nothing came. Breathing a sigh of relief, Dean followed behind Campbell as they began to follow the walkway around, the wall to their right decorated by numerous brass carvings showing religious scenes.

Adam looked up into one of the ceiling corners, and his eyes picked up an unusually large amount of cobwebs. Normally, he thought, it wouldn't be unusual for cobwebs to gather in old buildings such as this one, but the sheer amount he was seeing suggested that this place had a major arachnid problem, or that something very big made those cobwebs…

"Uh guys…" he said.

"What?" snapped Campbell, wheeling around to face him suddenly. Adam nearly jumped out of his skin, but recomposed himself in time to point out his discovery.

"I really don't think we should hang around here for long," Adam replied, pointing up towards the large cobwebs in the corner. The other two men looked up, and soon the implications of Adam's warning began to sink in, their facial expressions melting like ice cream.

"I'd hate to think what made those," muttered Campbell, just as the noise invaded their ears. It sounded like a light humming noise, but if they listened more closely, they could make out that the sound actually consisted of several rapid footfalls, possibly from something with more than one set of legs.

"Shit!" cried Adam, readying his weapon, just as Dean looked up and saw something large and with many legs moving towards them from across the _ceiling._ He strained his eyes to make its appearance out, just as Campbell opened fire with his sidearm. The shape flinched as green blood sprayed from it, and it quickly dashed in their direction, moving much faster than its bulk allowed.

"What the-?" Dean asked, as he finally saw the thing in its full glory.

It was a spider, albeit one that was at least twice Dean's size, all hairy limbs and bulbous body, its coloration being a blend of deep black and bright yellow stripes, and its fangs the size of steak knives and dripping with a translucent green fluid, which was probably poison if logic served him correctly. Its numerous eyes glared ahead of them, reflecting images of the small startled group back towards them. Dean stood transfixed at the massive arachnid as it drew closer and closer. He willed himself to raise his own weapon and fire at it, but he couldn't. For years when he was growing up, he'd always tease his sister about being terrified of any spider she saw, even the smallest ones that she'd find stuck in the bathtub, but now he was understanding what she felt, even if this spider wasn't the half the size of a thimble.

BANG!

The sound of Adam's M4 going off caused Dean to jump in shock and return to reality. More green blood spurted from the huge spider's bulk, but doing little to stall its advance. Dean finally acted now, firing his SMG into the monster's many eyes. The monster let off a sort of demented shrieking sound and it finally lost its grip on the upside-down surface. It plummeted to the ground below like a stone, making a loud thud as it hit the marble floor. The three weary men peered over the balcony down at the monster, watching as it lay there on its back, its many legs flailing about in an attempt to right itself, before it finally lay still, its legs drawing themselves in and a pool of green blood spreading beneath its broken form.

"That's one big mother fucker of a spider," said Campbell after a long silence, almost making Dean want to burst out into a fit of hysterical laughter, but he kept it in.

Instead he just said, "Now I know why my sister's such a notorious arachnophobe."

"Heads up!" cried Campbell, unslinging his mine thrower and aiming down the balcony. Two more spiders, each the size of the last one, rounded the corner ahead of the group, one of them scuttling along the ground, the other clinging to the wall. Campbell wasted no time in firing a round at the arachnid clinging to the wall, the dart sinking into its thorax and exploding a second later, popping its abdomen like a long-overdue zit. Its green blood and fragments of skin rained down all over as the rest of its bloated body fell from its perch to the ground. The spider that was still in one piece suddenly pulled its head back and spat out a glob of green slimy liquid. Dean saw the attack coming and quickly stepped back out of range. The substance hit the ground and evaporated instantly with a loud hiss.

Chances were that stuff was poison, and if it had made contact with his skin, he wouldn't be feeling too good shortly afterwards. He quickly unlimbered his MP5 and fired a burst into the monster's bulk, snapping off one of its front legs. In retaliation, the creature just raised its remaining front limbs and scuttled straight at the group, leaving a stream of bodily fluids behind it.

Campbell was quick to react to this though, stepping forward and planting his boot into the spider's face, causing it to be stopped in its tracks for a moment. He followed that up by lifting his handgun so it was only a few inches away from the spider's face, and unloaded the remainder of the magazine into the ugly visage, spraying even more blood and hairy flesh around. It was only when the clip was finally emptied that the body slumped to the ground dead, toxic green blood still pumping out of the numerous rents torn into the flesh.

The mercenary turned back to his companions, his face flushed and damp with sweat, casually holstering his side arm. "Someone needed an exterminator badly," he said eventually, dryly.

The other two just looked at each other momentarily before walking past the spider's corpse and towards the door at the end of the balcony.

"Let's just get going," said Adam in a low voice. Campbell just shrugged as if to say 'What'd I say?' before he followed after them.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Oh geez, another long wait between updates. Sorry about the wait people, but other stuff took priority (which always seems to be the case with stuff like this), such as trying to find a job. Anyways, enough about me, let's get on with the story. **

Chapter 11: Shattered Peace

**September 27th 0316 hours**

"Pull in over there."

"Out in the open like this?" asked an exasperated Simon.

They'd been driving for hours without any form of rest or sustenance, so Ben had been looking for an ideal place for them to pull over and let their passengers get out and stretch their legs for a bit. But of course, that wasn't a luxury they could afford in a city full of the undead.

"Look, the last few streets have been practically empty," reasoned Ben, "so it wouldn't hurt for us to just stop for 5 minutes, at the most, wouldn't it? I'm sure they're all going stir crazy back there."

Simon sighed and shook his head in defeat. "Fine," he said, turning the wheel and pulling the van into the cover of a large shadow cast by an overhanging bridge. As the vehicle slowed to a halt and the handbrake was pulled into place, there were a few raised voices from the back of the passenger compartment.

"What's going on?"

"Why are we stopping? Those things are still out there!" They all stopped once Ben stepped into their area though.

"Look, I figured that you people wanted to get out and stretch your legs a little-"

"Are you nuts?!" seethed Cal, the electrician rising to his feet. "You let us out, those damned things are bound to come after us!"

"How long have we been sat in here though?" asked Ben in response, intentionally trying to get to him.

"Um…I have no idea," came a sheepish reply.

"Exactly," said Ben, already making his way to the far side of the rear compartment. He unlocked the main doors and flung them open with a little effort, allowing the early morning air to blow in through the opening. "Look, I'm sure you're all feeling a little stiff, so to speak, so just get out and stretch your legs. Go on."

The passengers looked amongst themselves for a little, and then one by one, they got up and stepped out onto the street, milling about in an uncertain fashion.

"Will 10 minutes do?" asked Ben. He didn't get an answer, just an uneasy silence amongst the gathered survivors. "Fine, just don't go too far, allright?" As his voice faded away, the group dispersed, some of them walking away into the middle of the road and stretching their arms and legs, while others just made their way over to their own isolated part of the shadow and just remained silent. At least one person broke down in tears.

Ben grunted and sat himself down on the edge of the van floor, his Remington propped up next to him within easy reach in case anything happened. He heard a few bangs from the front of the van as Simon and Roger appeared from around the sides of the vehicle, the SWAT officer having drawn and readied his M4 already. Ben didn't know how much the blonde-haired man had left for his weapon, but he was sure that he would conserve his available resources wisely.

Roger took up a seated position close to Ben and sighed deeply before he finally broke the silence. "10 minutes is a little generous don't you think?"

"I doubt 5 minutes would've been enough," replied Ben flatly. He just stared ahead of him, half expecting something to come staggering out of a dark alleyway or abandoned store front.

"Maybe you're right," replied his colleague gruffly, "but who knows if there's any safe places in this city left?"

"Probably not," muttered Ben as he gazed up at the dark sky. "But they're only human. We can't keep them cooped up all the time." They observed the ragtag group in silence for a while, perhaps the only humans left in the madness of Raccoon City.

"Ben, while your concern for them is admirable," said Roger suddenly, "what about your own safety?"

"What do you mean by that?" asked Ben, still looking away.

"Are you willing to sacrifice yourself so they can get away and survive? Or do you only care about your own well-being?"

Ben turned to face his colleague this time, a confused expression on his face. "Roger, what are you saying?"

"It's bullshit Ben," said Roger flatly. "We're supposed to be protect-and-serve and all that crap, but I'm sure that when it comes to the crunch, anyone would rather save their own skin rather than worry about someone else."

"Roger, where the hell's this come from?" asked Ben, clearly baffled by his colleague's behaviour. Roger was always known for keeping his head in any situation, but now it looked like that quality was beginning to diminish somewhat.

Roger only scoffed in response and turned away, walking to somewhere at the front of the van. Ben just watched him go, wondering at just how much a person could change in a situation such as this. Nothing like a zombie outbreak to make someone's persona change beyond recognition.

Yet still the veteran officer's words were still scratching at something in the back of his mind. Would he keep his sense of duty? Or would the primal urge of self-preservation cause him to make a big mistake sometime in the future?

"Fat chance of that," he muttered to himself.

At least, he hoped so.

"Oh you have to be fucking kidding me."

All three of them were on the balcony below the clock tower now, but that was as far as they were going for now. Their was a ladder into the tower itself, but it was high above out of their reach, and apparently they needed a key to bring it down, if the brass plate with a keyhole in it at the base of the structure was any indicator. It didn't make any sense why'd they needed a key for this ladder.

Dean and Adam stood off to the side as Campbell took his frustrations out on one of the large spotlights nearby, presumably used to light up the clock face at night. Aside from two of those and a large puddle of water, there was little else of interest on the balcony. Dean turned away from the angry mercenary and looked out over the city.

He had a decent view from here, but he was higher up than the roof of the R.P.D, so he could see even further now. The sun was beginning to rise from above the buildings on the far side of the city as well, so the visibility was improving, even as thick clouds of smoke from the countless blazes hung overhead. He could make out City Hall several blocks away, a pristine ivory building seemingly untouched by the devastation in the city. He could also still see the R.P.D building, only from the back though, and he thought of the undead denizens of Raccoon City flooding the corridors and rooms now, feasting upon the flesh of those unlucky enough to be left behind. Hell, for all he knew, he was the only member of the R.P.D left alive in the city. Unless Ben and the others in the small group who had apparently left the precinct in the riot van were still alive somewhere.

_Dammit Ben, you'd better be alive out there…_

He could make out some other landmarks from his lofty position as well: the University, far to the East near the city outskirts as well, along with the rough outline of the Zoo area he had just passed through with the late Taylor Drecker, only a couple of blocks away from his current location. Further beyond all of this, he could see an immense glass skyscraper standing somewhere to the south, with a huge red and white octagonal emblem on the side that was facing him. It was Umbrella's Headquarters, the centre of their operations in Raccoon City and the entire United States even. Unlike most of the city, the building was practically untouched.

He looked down at the streets at the foot of the clocktower, and saw the dozens of zombies roaming about randomly, some of them feasting upon the corpses of those unlucky enough to not stay inside. But then again, even that wouldn't do them much good. There probably wasn't any safe places left in the city now, and even a place of temporary society would soon be over-run if the zombie hordes got wind of survivors taking shelter. If they couldn't call the extraction chopper and ended up having to wait there, how long did they have before the zombies sniffed them out? They'd have to prepare for a worst case scenario if that did happen, as there was no point in staying at the extraction point if it got overrun. But first things first…

Quickly, he took his sight away from the zombies, afraid one of them would have looked up and seen him.

"Now what?" asked Adam suddenly, breaking the silence.

"Now what?!" echoed Campbell, sounding a bit pissed off, but keeping his back to the other two as he spoke. "Who the fuck knows, since we need a damned key to even get up there!" Adam flinched away slightly from his comrade's response.

"Hey," said Dean, trying to take control of the situation. "If we need a key for that, maybe it's somewhere else in the building. We just need to check the other rooms."

"Great, more giant spiders," muttered the angry mercenary.

"A necessary risk to be taken," chipped in Dean, but it did little to calm the angry man's mood, who kicked over a potted plant to the right of the clock face instead. Dean offered a tentative glance at Adam to try and find some reassurance, but the mild mannered mercenary seemed as lost as Dean did in current affairs.

"Well fine then, Mr. Cop," said Campbell finally, turning to face his two companions. "If you're so sure of finding this key, you lead the way then." His face showed a mask of barely-disguised rage, and Dean had dealt with that expression more than a few times in the past when breaking up gang disputes. And in those instances he was sorely tempted to wipe it off of the faces of those responsible for those looks, but he had to resist that temptation.

"If you're going to call me something, call me Dean, cause it is my name," said Dean politely in response. "And if you want me to lead the way, then we'd best get going. You only get one life after all."

"OK then, _Dean,_" announced Campbell, readying his mine thrower weapon. "If you insist, then let's get going shall we?" And with that, he pushed past Dean and Adam and disappeared back through the door into the main hall. The cop just glanced at Adam and raised his eyebrows.

"You can bear working with this guy?" he asked.

"Well, he never used to be like this," admitted Adam. "We've already been through a few missions together, but this is the first time he's been this irritable. Then again, I'm not surprised he's changed after everything that's happened so far."

"Yeah," agreed Dean.

_But what about me? _Thought Dean. _Will I change because of all this? Would I ever be able to go back to normal society after everything I've been through? How could anyone go back to being normal after this clusterfuck? _

"Excuse me!" shouted an impatient voice suddenly, snapping Dean out of his thoughts. He looked up to see Capbell's head sticking out from the half-open door onto the balcony. "Can we get going please?"

"If you insist," mumbled Dean as he approached the impatient mercenary and pushed past him into the tower interior. "Excuse me," he said with a hint of distaste as the other man refused to move himself out of the way fully.

Campbell just bit down on his lip, biding his time and keeping his anger in check, if only for a little longer at the least.

Down in the street below, a handful of zombies lingered. They were all relatively spread-out and ignoring one another, most of them just staring straight ahead at the space before them, even as a small crimson blaze engulfed a newspaper stand on the sidewalk, and a female undead gorged itself upon the body of a fallen R.P.D officer.

A tall man in dress slacks and bloody white shirt stood in the very centre of the road, one of its eyeballs hanging loose from its socket and one of its cheeks ripped away. In his past life, this man was originally Marshall Davies, a 32-year old writer for the Raccoon Times, the city's most popular paper. He was married with two kids, and was leading a relatively happy life. But that was all gone now: the man that was Marshall was no longer there, replaced by a decaying frame that only desired for the flesh of those who still lived. Such was the price of Umbrella's attempts to play God…

"Excuse me!" came a shouted voice from somewhere above.

Slowly but steadily, the attention of the Marshall zombie turned skywards, looking up at the imposing outline of the clock tower before it.

"Can we get going please?" continued the mystery voice, its volume somewhat lower this time, but still loud enough to be heard by the zombies on the street. Many of them had turned away from their previous activities now, all of them gazing up at the clock tower. Then, with chorus of moaning, some of them began to shuffle down the road, towards the large pair of double doors about 50 feet away from them.

The zombified Marshall Davies uttered a moan of his own, before he began to follow after his undead cohorts.

RATATATATAT!

Dean unloaded his MP5 into the hairy form moving above him, raining green blood down onto his head, but it didn't matter as long as he killed the massive arachnid as quickly as possible.

The spider dislodged itself from its position, causing the cop to suddenly back pedal away as it slammed down in front of him, its many eyes gleaming with evil intent. He raised his MP5 as quickly as he could and fired another burst into its face, causing it to thrash about, shrieking madly in pain. It hit the ground a few seconds later, copious amounts of green fluid staining the wooden floor.

"Fuck," he muttered, staring at the dead monster.

"Dean! Everything all right in there?" shouted Adam's muffled voice from the room next door.

"Yeah, I'm fine," replied Dean eventually, recomposing himself and taking a deep breath. "You can come in now." A second later, the door he'd entered through banged open and the two Umbrella mercenaries entered the room. Campbell had a rather smug look on his face that Dean had a good mind to wipe off, but repressed his urges either way.

"Thanks for the help then?" said dean sarcastically, somewhat annoyed at the fact he had to face a giant spider all by himself.

"What? You managed by yourself in the end didn't you?" replied Campbell simply, sounding a bit pleased with himself as he did so.

_Damn, I've got a good mind to wipe that smug look off of your face…_

They were in what was the clock tower's snug and compact library, its floor littered with piles of books knocked from the shelves and crumpled pieces of paper (and now, the remains of an enormous mutant spider). A passage lead to a door to the far right of their initial entry point, while the other door in the room depicted an intricate carving of Chronos, the God of Time.

"Well this search is turning up little," remarked Campbell as the other two searched the small room for anything useful.

"Don't be so pessimistic," replied Adam as he tipped over a pile of dusty books, as Dean was approaching the door at the end of the long passageway. He grabbed the doorknob and turned it, and the door gave way luckily. Nice to find a door that actually opened in this place…

The next room was a small but cosy study, complete with a large storage chest in the corner and a small table with a chessboard set up on it. A game had ended in checkmate, since the pieces hadn't been moved yet, while behind that a large cabinet was stood up against the wall, its glass front protecting shelves full of random knick-knacks, but nothing remotely useful for their current cause. Sighing, Dean moved on towards the next door, by the storage chest.

Stepping into the next room, he glanced about and froze in place. It was a bedroom, with a small but cosy feel, much like the study before. There was a large double-poster bed a few feet away from Dean, along with a small study table and chair and other personal belongings scattered about the room's floor and furniture. But he was more concerned with the being standing on the opposite side of the bed from him.

A lone zombie stood across from him, swaying slightly on the spot and just staring a hole straight through him. It was a short male, probably in his early 60's at the least, and he was well-dressed in a dark green waistcoat, a white shirt and dress slacks that were the same colour as the waistcoat. Unlike most of the other zombies Dean had encountered so far, he had no severe injuries or blood splatter on him at all: were it not for the deathly pale skin pallor and milky white eyes, he would have easily passed for a human.

Both of them shared the same unrelenting stare with one another, waiting for the other to make the first move. Then the zombie finally came to life, shuffling around the bed in its unsteady steps in order to get a clear line of sight towards its intended victim. It was almost pitiful to watch as the zombie's foot caught on a discarded shirt and the whole monster went crashing to the floor with a thud, with no effort made to protect its face as it hit the carpeted floor.

"I'm getting sick of the sight of your kind," Dean said deadpan as he aimed his MP5 at the struggling zombie and sighted his aim over the back of its head.

BANG!

A small burst of pink erupted from the back of the monster's skull and it flinched once before hitting the ground for good with a wet smack. The cop sighed as he flicked the safety back on and made his way back the way he'd come.

"Anything?" asked Adam as Dean rejoined his companions in the library.

"Nothing," replied Dean, shaking his head. "Maybe this was just a worthless journey after all," he then added, noticing Campbell's smug 'I told you so' face.

"Well now what?" asked the aforementioned smug mercenary, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Hell if I know," growled Dean, pacing back the way he'd come and turning back on himself. "Looks like all we can do is to sit tight and wait for the others to come. Then maybe we can try and figure something else out."

"If we're still alive by then," grumbled Campbell in displeasure.

"Don't be such a pessimist," remarked Adam, stood off to the side throughout all of this.

"Hey," replied Campbell, raising his arms to either side of him, "you could say for a pessimist, I'm pretty optimistic."

Dean raised an eyebrow at the mercenary's comment. "I'm confident of getting out of this alive," he then continued, "it just involves a different path to what you're thinking."

"And what does that mean?" asked Dean. But he never got an answer. Not yet at least.t

CRASH!

"What was that?" asked Adam, going into a combat-ready stance.

"Whatever it was, it didn't sound too good," added Dean, readying his own weapon.

"That sounded like it came from the courtyard outside!" finished Campbell, already making a move for the door into the main hall, past the steaming corpse of the giant spider from before. The other two didn't say anything else as they moved after him with urgency. Soon enough they were all pushing through the double doors that lead outside and they all skidded to an abrupt halt.

"Oh Jesus," murmured Dean.

The main doors that lead out onto the street outside the Clock Tower had been thrown wide open, and staggering through the open gap came several zombies, at least a dozen of them, and with at least double that number lining up in the street behind the initial group. The front wave of undead citizens noticed the fresh meat standing not too far away from them and began to speed up, holding their arms out before them as they advanced.

"Shit!" exclaimed Adam as he immediately got into a crouched position by the fountain in the centre of the courtyard and took aim with his M4. Campbell quickly did the same on the opposite side of the structure, his SIG Pro ready for combat. Dean just stood around, seemingly miles away, even as the first volley of gunfire from the two armed mercenaries erupted into the advancing undead hordes.

A burst of fire from Adam's M4 tore through the skull of a young female and into the chest of a tall male that was stood directly behind her. He soon hit the ground, blood oozing from the wounds in his torso. Soon Adam was quickly switching targets and unloading his next burst into the disfigured skull of an elderly man with most of his lower jaw missing. Next to him, Campbell fired off a few shots from his handgun, and each individual shot buried itself into a zombie skull. He was so deadly and efficient with his shots that it seemed almost inhuman.

Dean finally did something useful in the context of their current situation, dropping into a crouched position close to Adam and readying his MP5 for combat.

"Fuck, now what?!" cried Campbell as he switched his handgun out for the mine thrower, noticing that the number of zombies in the courtyard was rapidly rising.

"Well we can't stay here!" shouted Dean back, firing a 3-round burst. The bullets slammed into the malformed face of a zombified police officer, sending the monster to the ground like a discarded lump of rotten meat. "God knows how many there are!"

"Well that's just peachy, isn't it?!" replied Campbell through gritted teeth ad he launched a mine dart into a zombie standing in the middle of an advancing procession of rotting flesh. A few seconds later, a small explosion tore through several zombies in the blink of an eye, but more appeared to plug the gap.

"But where the hell are we gonna go?!" shouted Adam as he unloaded the remainder of his current magazine and went for a fresh one. "The other doors in this place are just a dead end!" As he finished that statement, Dean had already readied one of his hand grenades and ripped the pin out.

"Heads up!" he cried, lobbing it towards the advancing undead swarm.

"Fuck!" cried Campbell and putting his head down as the object bounced twice, came to a rest in the centre of the shambling horde, then exploded, swallowing many of them in white-hot flames and splattering gallons of blood and fetid internal organs over everything in range, including the fountain the three armed survivors were crouched behind.

"Oh geez man," muttered Campbell as blood rained down over him, "could have given us a little more warning!"

"That's the least of our worries!" replied the cop, indicating the new arrivals that came lurching through the smoke of the grenade blast.

"We need to go, now!" cried Adam, opening fire once again.

"Oh, fine by me," replied Campbell sarcastically, "but those freaks are blocking the way out!"

"Then we have to go _through_ them," added Dean, giving them both a serious glare as he reloaded his SMG.

"Oh Jesus," murmured Adam, before he fired another burst of rounds into the crowd.

"Look, just stay here and hold them off: I'll go get the others," explained Dean, getting up to move towards the double doors behind them.

"Hey, fuck that!" shouted Campbell over everything else. "We can't risk wasting anymore time here! We have to go now!"

"Screw that!" shouted Dean back, now stood between the two mercenaries and the doors. "I'm not leaving them behind!"

"You might not want to, but I don't give a shit anyways!" snarled Campbell, fixing Dean with a deadly stare. "Why the fuck bother anyway? You couldn't save most of the population, why bother with just a handful of civilians?"

Dean just stood there in silence, staring through the man. He was right in a way, as even if they were able to save these few civilians, it wouldn't have made much difference to the overall situation: Raccoon City had a population of over 100,000, after all. And their current situation seemed hopeless, to be blunt. But Dean had been through enough thus far, and he wasn't planning on backing down now.

"No," he said simply, through gritted teeth. "You, my friend, might be willing to throw life away to save your own skin, and have it down to a very fine art, but I'm not a scumbag like you."

"What?!" cried Campbell, as he turned and fired into the crowd a few times.

"This city probably has no space left for my profession, but I still have a responsibility! So you and Adam are going to wait here for me to get back!" He finished that last part with his teeth practically grinding themselves together into dust, and locking eyes with Campbell, who looked fairly pissed off by then. "Am I clear?"

"Crystal," growled Campbell, turning back and firing once more.

Dean raised his own weapon and fired off a few bursts, killing a few more zombies, before he turned and dashed back through the doubles doors.

Ben watched the seconds counting down on his watch, until the minute hand finally clicked onto the ten minute marker. As it did, he stood upright and stretched his arms up to the sky.

"OK, time's up!" he shouted. "Let's get going people!"

"Already?" asked Simon from out of sight. "Seemed like only 5 minutes."

"Oh stop moaning," moaned Roger as the three officers converged in the same position. Gradually, the small group of survivors reconvened in the same area, all of them not looking any better.

"Can't wait to get going," murmured Cliff, the gruff man in a the leather jacket, getting into the riot van's interior slowly. He was followed by Hannah, the young brunette-haired woman who looked as pale as a sheet.

"You feeling OK?" asked Simon as she passed by.

"Not really," she replied flatly, taking her place in the cabin. To be fair, none of them blamed her, considering their current predicament. After her, a couple more made their way into the van, people who Ben didn't know the name of, and who he hadn't even noticed till now, too wrapped up was he in keeping alive, and yet he was meant to be keeping them all safe, not just himself.

"Is that all of them?" asked Roger, but Ben was way ahead of him when it came to taking a quick head count.

"Hold on, we're one short," said Ben, looking about the street. "Where's Cal?"

The others looked amongst themselves for a short while, but none of them said anything. But it was plain to see that Cal, the electrician who'd had words with Ben before, wasn't there.

"Who was the last to see him?" asked Roger with a frustrated sigh. This was slowing them all down, and the last thing they needed was to take their time with stuff like this. Not in a city filled with the living dead.

"I was," spoke up Cliff eventually. "He went down that allyway next to that bakery over there," he continued, pointing past Roger and Ben to a comely-looking bakery situated opposite the van, its front display windows smashed in.

"And you let him go by himself?" asked Ben. "Especially considering you know what's out there?" The gruff man just offered a shrug in response. Ben rolled his eyes at the man's ignorance and looked towards Roger. "C'mon, let's go find him."

"Fine by me, long as we're quick," replied the older man, readying his shotgun. Both of them dismounted from the vehicle and onto the tarmac, Ben giving the assembled survivors a steely glare.

"Simon, Max, look after them."

"Will do," replied the other two officers in unison, from the front of the van. As Max took up position near the rear doors, Ben and Roger crossed to the alleyway entrance at a jogging pace, before carefully entering, both of them keeping their weapons readied.

It was dark and stunk of a mixture of rancid trash and decay, not a very pleasant combination at any rate. Ben noticed a large pair of double doors near to the row of trashcans in the vicinity, and near to that he spied what looked like a pile of various types of rotten meat and animal parts, so this was probably the back area of a butchers shop. And therefore the stench wasn't much better as a result.

Roger pulled his shirt collar up and over his mouth to act as an impromptu mask, holding his shotgun steady with just the one hand. Ben just tried his best to breath through his mouth instead of his nose so he didn't get subjected to the stench of the leftovers of animal carcases. But it still didn't stop him getting the odd brief whiff now and then though, and he felt like throwing up, but then he remembered that he hated vomiting more anything and kept his stomach contents down.

It was a strange thing, hating the simple thought of throwing up, but Ben had good reason for having this hatred. During one night out on the town he'd ended up downing one too many shots of vodka or some other spirit and passed out on the street, only to wake up a short while later face down in a puddle of his own vomit, which wasn't very pleasant for him for obvious reasons, but also because the others at the station referred to him as 'Ben the Barfer' for weeks afterwards.

"What's that?" asked Roger suddenly, causing Ben to cease his reminiscing.

"What?" he asked, just as the sound of what could be breaking bones and the tearing of skin reached his ears.

"Doesn't sound very promising…" continued Roger, still holding his collar over his face. They moved on gradually, passing by what looked like a makeshift dog pen built from steel mesh fencing, but with no sign of the former canine occupant inside. Past that was a scene they were more interested in.

A form was crouched over the fallen body of someone undeterminable, tearing into it with all the reckless abandon of a savage beast, spraying blood up and over everything in the immediate vicinity. Whatever the creature was, it didn't look human.

"The hell is that?" asked Roger, voicing the exact same thing Ben was thinking. Even as those words left the veteran officer's lips, the creature stopped what it was doing and looked in the direction of the new arrivals, a low growl rising from its throat (or what was left of its throat at least). Ben swallowed down his fear as the thing began to step towards them. He could make out its outline now, and it was canine in shape, but when it stepped into the light it was anything but.

It looked as though it had been a Doberman in its past life, but now it just resembled a mockery of its original form. Its fur and skin was fetid and rotting like the countless zombies in the city was, and large patches of its skin had already sloughed off of its body in many places to expose the muscle and sinew beneath. On its sleek head, a large area of skin had been torn away, taking one its ears with it and exposing the creature's skull beneath. Its eyes had a glassy and unfocused appearance to them, similar to the eyes of the zombies. It emitted a low growl as it approached slowly.

"What the hell is that?" asked Ben.

As the words left his lips, the deformed hound suddenly burst into action, sprinting towards the two men it inevitably viewed as its next meal.

"Holy shit!" exclaimed Roger as he grabbed his shotgun with both hands and aimed it at the approaching monster, with Ben doing the same as his colleague. Within a second and a half, the monster was within range and it launched itself into the air, fangs bared and trailing bloody drool behind it.

BOOM!

The dual sound of both shotguns going off reverberated through the narrow space, threatening to deafen them both. The front portion of the dog's body literally exploded in a mist of red, the remnants of its corpse hitting the floor with a wet splat.

"The hell was that?" gasped Roger as he stared at the mangled remnants of their attacker, blood still pumping out of the corpse. "Looked like some kind of hound from hell!"

"Looked like a zombie dog to me," replied Ben, linking the appearance of this new enemy they'd just killed with the all-too unforgettable visage of the countless zombies they had both seen so far since the trouble the other day started.

"So what, this shit's affecting dogs as well?" asked Roger, still staring at the mangled and bloody half-corpse. "That's bullshit!"

"Maybe so, but there you go," replied Ben, walking past the dead zombie dog to investigate its most recent meal. The man lying on his back had been mauled severely, with most of his exposed face and upper body literally torn to shreds, exposing the pristine white of the bone beneath, along with a few internal organs into the bargain. It wasn't a very pretty sight, but at the same time, Ben recognised something that would be helpful to their current objective. There was a scrap of cloth lying no so far away from the bloody corpse, and it seemed like some twist of fate that the cloth was spotless: not a single drop of blood of scrap of dirt stained its surface. Not so far away lay a Beretta handgun: bloody but otherwise still useable.

"What's that?" asked Roger as he materialised next to Ben's shoulder. Ben had already stooped to pick up the ragged piece of material and held it close to him, so both men could see what it was. It was a name tag, specifically one that would normally be found on the chest of a set of overalls. And it had a very familiar name on it.

"It's Cal's," said Ben, matter-of-fact. He didn't sound that devastated by the man's death. But then again he didn't like him very much, not after the time he got a bit pushy over when they'd be finding somewhere safe. And he couldn't waste time mourning every single person's passing.

"Oh shit," cussed Roger, looking at the dead body at their feet. He noticed that there was a bloody rent where the jugular should have been. "Looks like he got his throat ripped out, which would explain why no-one heard him cry out."

"Poor bastard," added Ben, tossing the torn piece of cloth aside. "No-one deserved to die like that."

"No," agreed Roger. "But if humans and dogs are turning into zombies, what else could be?"

Ben stood still as he pondered this. It seemed a perfectly logical assumption to make: if those two species had succumbed to turning into undead flesh-eating monsters, then what other creatures could? Cats? Birds? What about rats and mice?

BANG! BANG! BANG!

They both nearly leapt out of their skins at the sound of gunfire and looked around.

"The others!" hissed Roger.

"Come on! Go!" shouted Ben, only stopping to pick up the bloody gun lying by Cal's corpse (he didn't know if it would come in handy again, but better safe than sorry), before hot-footing it after his partner.

They both emerged onto the street to see Simon and Max Turin stood in front of the open rear doors of the riot van, shielding the other survivors from imminent danger. A gaggle of zombified civilians had suddenly appeared, and the two officers were chipping away at their numbers.

"Oh geez, not again!" cried Roger, as he began to run towards the van, closely followed by Ben.

"What the hell happened?" shouted Simon over the popping of his M4. "Where's Cal?"

"He's dead!" shouted Ben as he mounted up in the van interior. "Let's go! Now!"

"He's dead? Shit!" shouted back Dave as he unloaded the rest of his MP5, feeling quite a few more zombies in the process. "Goddamn it!"

"He's dead?" asked the soft voice of the young woman in the van. "Oh my God…"

"Well if someone had gone with him, he wouldn't be dead!" shouted Roger as he covered Simon, who made a move for the driver's side door.

"Let's just go!" cried Simon, as he got into the van and slammed his door shut. As he did, he glanced out of his window at a line of store fronts parallel to his side of the van. Through the broken glass windows and empty doorframes, he could see the outline of shadowy figures moving about inside. He stared for a bit longer, his mind drowning out the other sounds around him: the gunfire, the panicked shouts, everything; and soon the shapes began to come into focus, assuming the appearance of human creatures. That is, humans covered from head to toe in blood and tattered clothing.

"Uh guys, I think we attracted more of them!" shouted the panicked S.W.A.T officer.

"Oh just our luck," growled Ben from the back of the van. He raised his Beretta and fired off a shot, punching the 9mm through the open mouth of a man with dirty blonde hair that was closing in. "Go! Now!" As he finished those words, Roger fired off one last shotgun blast into the zombie group, knocking them all backwards, before he clambered into the back of the van and slammed the doors shut behind him.

"We're good to go!" he shouted as he locked the doors, his voice somewhat muffled by the interior of the vehicle. At this, Ben moved himself, running round to the passenger side door and throwing himself into the vehicle.

"Right, go!" he shouted to Simon, pulling on his seatbelt.

SMASH!

The window next to Ben's face exploded, sending broken shards of glass raining down, and he quickly moved sideways, practically head-butting Simon's knee as he did so. He felt short, sharp spikes of pain shoot through his exposed cheek and neck.

"Shit!"

"Ben! What the hell was that?!" cried a surprised Simon, but soon got his answer.

A bony, withered hand was reaching through the broken window, shards of glass embedded in and between the fingers. Behind it, he saw the head of a young blonde man, portions of his scalp torn away to expose pristine white skull bone, and his eyes having that unfocused, milky look that was far too familiar to the R.P.D survivors. Behind that head, he saw a few more closing in rapidly.

"Fucker!" cried Ben and he aimed his Beretta out of the window.

BANG!

Part of the blonde man's head exploded and he fell back from view.

"You OK?" shouted Simon at his friend, who was still aiming out the broken window.

"Yeah, I'm fine, just go!" Ben shouted back, holding his free hand to his sore face.

Simon put his foot to the ground and the van screeched away as fast as it could.

They all sat in relative silence, looking straight ahead, or at the floor or even the ceiling, but none of them said anything, they just listened. They'd heard some sporadic bursts of gunfire from elsewhere within the building, but since then they hadn't heard anything.

"They're taking their time," piped up Roger finally.

"Maybe they just upped and left us here," suggested Joe glumly.

"Don't even talk like that," shot back Zac from near the door, the shotgun he'd acquired from held awkwardly in his hands. "They wouldn't just leave us here!"

"Wouldn't they?" replied Joe. "I saw the way those mercenaries looked at us: they don't care about saving us at all. Better they get out before and not after."

"They wouldn't leave us here!" protested Sam, who had been keeping quiet until then. "They wouldn't!"

"You don't know that for sure though, do you?" shot back Joe, staring ahead.

"Maybe not," replied Sam, "but I'm not going to just give up on them. If anything, we should stay hopeful."

"But practically every person in this damned city's turned into one of those monsters!" said Angela, from her spot next to Sam. "We might be the last ones left. A pair of well-armed mercenaries and one cop won't do us much good if we're attacked en masse."

"Angela," whispered Sam, stooping down so he was nearer to her level, "I'll admit it looks bleak, but come on honey, you were never one to give up in the past, so why now?"

"I'm sorry Sam," she replied, "but this all just seems…hopeless." As she finished, she lowered her head and seemed to be sobbing, but it was barely audible to the others in the room. In response, he placed his hands on her shoulders.

"I know it is," he said, sounding as though he was about to go the same way. "I know it is…"

"Look, I'm sure they'll be back soon," reassured Zac from near the door. "I'm sure of it."

"And if they're not?" asked Roger snidely.

"Then…God knows what we'll do."

"What kind of answer's that?" came the next, more venomous reply.

"Well what do you want me to say?!" shouted back Zac, sounding rather pissed off into the bargain. "I'm not a damned leader! I'm a student! With a shotgun that I have no clue how to use!"

Awkward silence followed.

"We should just go then."

"What?!" asked Zac, turning to face Joe.

"Well we can't wait here forever!"

"And we won't be waiting forever!" shot back Zac, getting more annoyed now.

"Won't we?"

Another awkward silence followed.

"But Roger won't go anywhere!" protested Sam suddenly.

"I said I wouldn't leave this city," corrected the old man from the corner. "I said nothing about leaving this clock tower."

"Oh well, that makes things a bit easier then," added Joe.

"Don't get any lone wolf ideas, Joe!" replied Sam quickly. "You won't last very long out there by yourself."

"That Dean fella made it this far by himself."

"He's a professional though."

"I still have a gun!" growled Joe impatiently, showing the others his .357 revolver.

"And how many bullets you got for that, cowboy?"

Joe scowled in response.

"Look, this isn't helping," explained Sam slowly and calmly. If he survived through this he could have made a good negotiator. He'd already defused a few tricky situations since he'd met all these other people, and kept his cool regardless of everything that was happening…a necessary factor in this kind of situation.

"Sitting here isn't exactly helping either," was the reply. The tension was building again.

"Hey, you want to go, just go," cut in Angela. "I won't be running after you."

"Oh, if that's your attitude, then maybe I will," replied Joe. "We've sat here long enough, and we've wasted more than enough time we could use to leave!"

"You go out there and you're as good as dead," whispered Roger from his corner. He was stood up now, taking an active interest in the heated debate. "We all know about the zombies, but what if there's other things out there?"

"Like what?" scoffed Joe.

"You saw those giant spiders didn't you?" added Zac. "What if it doesn't end there?"

"I'm willing to take that chance."

"But you only have one gun and so much ammo for it. Trust me, we'd be better in a group with Dean and those other two."

"A group would slow us all down though."

"Maybe so but it'd be safer," justified Zac.

"And you're an expert, pee wee?"

Another bout of silence.

"No, but it seems the logical thing to do," explained Zac, feeling a bead of sweat running down the back of his neck.

"But this isn't exactly a logical situation is it?" asked Joe, sounding more and more threatening with each word. "Felsh-eating zombies suddenly coming out of nowhere: what's the logical explanation for that?"

"How the hell do you expect any of us to know that?" answered Sam.

"Well there's an explanation for everything, isn't there?" justified Joe. "Something tells me those Umbrella mercenaries know more than they're letting onto."

"Why do you say that?" asked Roger bluntly.

"Umbrella's always been a bit shifty for my liking. You heard about this secret lab that's supposed to be beneath the city?"

"Where'd you hear that?" asked Sam.

"A friend of mine told me so, he used to work for them as well. Thing is, after he told me that, I haven't seen him since…"

"Sure you did," replied Sam sarcastically. "Look, Umbrella made this town what is is, they wouldn't jeopardise that, would they? And besides, a lab under the town wouldn't make much sense: if it was there, we'd all know about it."

"Right, and who do you work for exactly?" asked Joe, arms folded in front of him.

"We work in Umbrella's finance department-"

"Oh yeah, so it'd be easy for you to lie about something like that then, keep us idiots out of the loop."

"And what's _that_ supposed to mean exactly?" asked Angela in an offended tone.

"I think someone's read too many conspiracy theories," scoffed Roger.

CRASH!

A loud noise from somewhere outside made them all nearly hit the ceiling.

"What was that?" asked Joe.

"Don't look at me," muttered Zac, gripping the shotgun tightly.

"Sounded like it came from just outside," added Sam.

Sudden gunfire tore through the night suddenly.

"Holy crap!" shouted Zac. "What's going on?"

"Did they get inside?" asked Sam.

"Sounds like it," affirmed Angela.

"Oh geez, now what do we do?" asked Joe, looking about nervously.

"Stay here?" suggested Zac.

"Oh yes, then when they get in here, we'll be trapped. Perfect," muttered Roger, looking more sullen than expected.

More gunfire was heard, along with an explosion that dislodged dust from the ceiling.

"Daddy, wait's happening?" sobbed Paula, from where she was crouched in the corner.

"It's OK sweetheart, everything will be OK," said her father.

"But will it?" added Joe, looking more and more unnerved by the minute.

"Think they can fight them off?" asked Zac, looking around.

"Well they're well-armed…but it depends how many zombies have broken in," reasoned Sam, but doing nothing to help the mood.

"Oh just great," muttered Zac in reply.

A few tense seconds later, there was a sudden banging on the door. Half of the room's occupants nearly hit the ceiling.

"Open up! It's me!" cried a familiar voice on the other side.

"Oh thank Christ!" half-cried Zac as he hurried to throw the door open. On the other side stood Dean, panting for breath, with the sweat running down his face and a determined glare in his eyes.

"They're inside," he said flatly.

"Well duh, genius," muttered Joe from the back of the room.

"Ignore him," added Sam, approaching the weary cop. "What are going to do?"

"We're leaving, so let's go," explained Dean.

"What? After we've been in here so long?!" spulttered Roger.

"Would you rather stay here until those freaks find you?" asked Dean. "The others can't hold them off forever, so we're leaving this place now and find somewhere else to lay low and wait for rescue."

"So where do we go?" asked Roger. "If they can get in here, then where else would be safe for us? I wouldn't be surprised if those damned monsters are in every building in this city!"

"It's better than staying here!" reasoned Angela, from next to Sam. By now, most of the civilians were congregated around the door, eager to get the hell out of there.

"But if we go somewhere else, would that be any safer?" came the protested reply.

"Look, if you don't come along voluntarily I'll drag you out, ok?" seethed Dean through gritted teeth. He didn't look too amused right now. Roger's angry face gave way to an almost meek expression, as he began to move from his position.

"Fine, if you insist, officer," he said, sounding a little venomous.

"Are we leaving daddy?" asked his daughter, looking as though she were miles away. Poor kid, thought Dean to himself.

"We're going somewhere safe Paula, so don't worry," reassured Roger, putting his arm around his daughter's shoulder in an effort to keep her clam. "We'll be fine, I promise."

"Yeah, we'll all get you somewhere safe," added Dean with a weary smile. "Don't worry."

"Can we go now?" asked an impatient Zac, still holding onto the shotgun he'd been given.

"Yes, we're going," replied Dean. "Come on!"

A mine dart erupted, blowing another handful of zombies to hell.

"Shit!" cried Campbell, as severed limbs fell down around him and Adam's position. "They'd better hurry up!" At least a dozen zombies were filing into the courtyard now, with twice their number dead among their feet. There wasn't a huge number of them, but there was enough to warrant concern.

"Yeah!" shouted back Adam, reloading his M4A1. "I'm running low over here!"

As he finished that sentence, there was a loud bang from behind them. Both men looked over their shoulders, in time to see Dean appearing from through the double doors into the front hall, leading the ragged group of civilian survivors with him.

"Holy shit!" muttered Zac upon seeing the carnage that had been wrought in the courtyard.

"All accounted for?" shouted Campbell, as he loaded fresh ammunition into his mine thrower.

"Oh yeah!" cried back Dean, taking up a kneeling position next to the two Umbrella mercenaries. The others just remained slightly behind them, trying to stay as far away from the action as possible. Joe however, took the time to aim and fire a single shot, exploding a zombie head like a blood-filled balloon.

"Oh yeah!" he shouted in exhilaration.

"What are we doing then?" asked Dean, after firing off a few bursts from his MP5.

"We go straight through them, take out any that get directly in our way!" replied Campbell.

"Through them?" asked Sam from behind them. Campbell nearly leaped out his skin when he realised the man was right next to his ear. "Are you nuts?!"

"They're slow and stupid!" reasoned Campbell. "If we run for it and stick together we can break through them!"

"He's got a point!" shouted Angela, appearing next to Sam as if from thin air. "These zombies aren't exactly quick on their feet!"

"It still sounds dangerous!" reasoned Roger from the rear of the group. "I don't anything to happen to my daughter!"

"She'll be fine, trust me!" replied Dean, not taking his eyes off of the zombies in front of him.

"We should go! Now!" shouted Adam, noticing that the zombie numbers had thinned enough, enough for them to slip out through their ranks.

"Dean?" asked a voice from behind the Raccoon City officer, who turned to face the young face of Angela.

"What?" he asked, talking as though they weren't in a fatal situation right about now.

"Aren't you scared?"

"Bit of a silly question to ask considering our current situation, don't you think?" he seethed, getting a little impatient right now.

"But this does seem a good time," reasoned the red-head. "We could all be killed right here and now, yet you don't seem the least bit nervous of scared."

She had a good point. Considering that he had seen flesh-eating zombies, giant insects with sickle-like claws, various zombified and warped zoo animals, and to cap it all off, an eight-foot-whatever muscle-bound freak with one eye and a missile launcher; he didn't seem that bit affected by what he had seen overall. None of his previous foes stuck in his mind or gave him much in the way of bad memories (although his bruised torso would serve as a reminder of his tussle with that one-eyed freak from before).

"You're right," he replied, accepting her view. "But the way I see it, I can't dwell on my fear. If I did that, I'd lose my focus, then I'd wind up dead. And I think you should do the same." She met her gaze, and she smiled slightly.

"Yeah," she said, "you're probably right."

"Oh shit, where'd they come from?!"

Dean looked up at the sound of Adam's exasperated voice. From the direction of the open main doors, another throng of zombies had suddenly emerged, and they were blocking the most direct route to the exit. The one leading the advance was formerly a well-dressed man, but now one his cheeks had been torn away and one of his eyeballs hung loose from its socket, an obscene amount of blood staining his white shirt. Dean grimaced as he stared at the thing's face.

"Goddamn it, now what?" shouted Zac. "We have to hold back longer now?"

"Maybe not," added Campbell, sounding as though he had a plan. He seemed to be looking back between the approaching zombies and the assembled survivors.

"So what then?" asked Dean. "I still got a few grenades on me-"

"Save those!" scolded Campbell, standing up. "We need something to distract them with."

"And what do you propose that we use?" asked Sam from next to the mercenary, sounding impatient.

"Oh that's simple, pretty boy," smirked Campbell. "You'll do just fine."

"What are you talking-"

He didn't get a chance to finish before Campbell suddenly grabbed his arm, and wrenched him forward, practically throwing him to the ground. The suited man landed face-first on the stone ground, only a few scant feet away from the approaching zombies. The others only stared in disbelief.

"What the hell are you doing?!" half-shouted Dean, making a move to help Sam to his feet.

But it was no use. Sam had barely managed to scramble to his feet when a zombie lunged for him. Despite the shambling nature of zombie kind, this one seemed to move with unnatural speed, grabbing onto him and lunging down towards his neck in one movement. There was a burst of blood as the monster's teeth tore into Sam's vulnerable neck and ripped out his jugular. The poor man didn't even scream or cry out, he just made a sort of morbid gurgling sound as he choked on his own blood.

"Sam!" screamed Angela as she watched her friend fall to the ground, her face having turned a deathly pale colour.

Sam and the zombie that was still attached to him both fell to the ground, the latter taking the opportunity to tear another mouthful of flesh from the man's throat region. As it did so, a few more undead were approaching, drawn by the lure of a fresh meal.

Dean just stared at the scene, his blood beginning to boil. They were supposed to be saving the people of the city, and Campbell had just thrown one away as though it were nothing. It was pretty clear that he only cared about his own life and nothing else: he was a coward to the end. Dean felt his teeth grind against each other as he turned to face the one responsible for this act.

"You son of a bitch!" he roared, brining his weapon up.

CRACK!

The stock connected with Campbell's cheekbone, and the umbrella mercenary was knocked to the ground. He glared up at Dean, his teeth clenched and his eyes ablaze with fury.

"Stop it!" shouted Roger from nearby.

"He killed him!" shouted Dean, moving down to stick another blow in Campbell's direction, but was stopped when the mercenary's boot kicked out and struck him in the stomach, knocking the wind from him and pushing him backwards.

"Necessary sacrifice, cop!" shouted back Campbell. "It's what we were trained to do!"

"You god-damn son of a bitch!" cried another voice. Next thing that was happening, Joe was launching himself at Campbell, trying to club him with the butt of his revolver.

Everything seemed to happen so fast that Dean couldn't keep track. As far as he could make out, Joe's attack was dodged by the treacherous Campbell, who directed the bulky man into Dean instead, knocking him onto his back. Lying down there, Dean observed, unable to provide aid. He watched as Joe spiralled away from the main group, disorientated and firing his revolver at some approaching zombies. The big man failed to see one creeping up from his flank though, and by the time he realised, it had already lunged and taken a bite out of his shoulder. He turned and managed to throw the monster to the floor, but as he did a larger zombie attacked him from behind. Dean saw the blood spray from Joe's shoulder area. He saw the look of pain and anguish on Joe's face, and he saw the burly gas station owner collapse to the floor, the former human tearing into him as though he were a piece of meat.

Dean altered his view slightly, and he found himself staring at Sam's dead eyes. The man had seemed decent enough, capable enough to be a natural leader, it seemed. But now he was reduced to simple zombie chow, as at least three of the undead denizens tore away at his frail body, ripping out his internal organs and breaking his bones in an effort to diminish their insatiable appetite. Sam's face was set in a look of sheer terror, his own eyes staring deep into Dean's, chilling him to the bone. He looked as though he were pleading for help, but there was nothing that could be done for him now.

Zac watched the events unfold with a look of disbelief. He knew there was something unsavoury about Campbell, but he never believed that he'd go so far as to throw away a human life in such a way. He didn't care about them: only himself, and he'd kill them all in a heartbeat, so Zac had to do something.

_Hope this works…_

"You fucker!" shouted the young man, swinging the shotgun he had been given to bear. He fingered the trigger and pulled.

BOOM!

It sounded as though he'd just fired an anti-aircraft gun, so severe was the weapon's retort, and the recoil nearly tore his arms off into the bargain.

The gun jumped in his arms, and the shot sailed well over the head of his intended target. Campbell wheeled on Zac, seemingly unaffected by the fact that he'd nearly been decapitated by a shotgun. In one stride, he approached Zac and bought his fist up, before driving it into the young man's face.

Zac cried out as his nose was broken instantly, the shotgun clattering away from him as he bought his hands up to his face to stop any bleeding. He looked up to see Campbell draw his handgun and aim it at his face. Zac's eyes widened in terror.

"You little shit," growled Campbell as he pulled the weapon's hammer back.

Luckily, he didn't get a chance to pull the trigger. He heard a shout from somewhere behind him, and he turned in time to see the red-headed woman come charging at him, her face showing a mask of rage. Taken by surprise, he felt her nails dig into his fleshy cheeks, drawing blood as they did so.

"Ahhh!"

"You killed him you bastard!" she screamed, not letting up as she tried to gouge his eyes out. "You won't get away with this!"

"You bitch!" roared Campbell, backhanding her in response, and she fell to the ground. He raised his handgun and aimed it at her face, a look of glee upon his face. "Now you'll die too."

CRACK!

Something hard struck him in the back of the head, and he fell face-first to the ground, in front of Angela. She looked down at the fallen mercenary, then looked up to see Adam, the more mild-mannered mercenary, stood over his fallen comrade, holding his M4A1 like a club.

"Sorry Campbell," he said, his face set in a passive state, "but I won't let you kill these people."

"Dude! Way to go!" shouted Zac from behind him, still holding his broken nose.

"Adam!" shouted Dean, still on his back for some reason. He tried to get up, but his foot slipped on a puddle of recent blood and he went down again, sideways-first. "Get them back inside! Somewhere safer than here!"

Adam looked at the Raccoon cop for a second and nodded in acknowledgement, before he offered a hand to the fallen Angela. "Come on!" he cried, as he pulled her back to her feet.

"But what about him?" shouted Roger suddenly, finally appearing to take an interest in what had just happened. At their feet, Campbell was struggling to his feet, moaning as he did so.

"Leave him! Let's just go!" replied Adam, taking the lead as he moved back towards the double doors into the clock tower, leading the remaining survivors behind him. "Dean! Come on!" shouted Adam, as the cop finally managed to regain his footing.

"Go on!" he shouted. "Get them-"

"BEHIND YOU!" shouted Zac as loud as he could manage.

Dean whirled on his heel to find a zombie right up in his face. He cried out in shock and took a step backwards, but the zombie lunged at him and they both toppled to the ground, Dean trapped below the zombie, bringing his hands up in time to stop it from tearing his throat out.

"Dean, no!" he heard Angela cry, but he was too fixated on the face before him, the one with a mouth full of broken teeth, the dead eyes and the skin that was peeling away in places to expose the cranium bone beneath, and with large patches of its blonde hair torn away in places. The zombie lunged down at Dean, and he turned his head, narrowly avoiding having his nose bitten off.

"Dean! Hold on!" he heard Adam cry, before he heard the sound of a weapon being readied.

"Don't you dare!" cried Dean, trying to push the zombie away from him. "You could hit me! Just go!"

"I'm not leaving you Dean!" shouted back Adam. "Not after everything you've done for us all!"

"Go!" shouted back Dean. "Worry about yourselves!"

"Fine!" came the reply. "Just don't you go dying on us!" A few seconds later, there was the sound of hurried footsteps, and of a door opening and slamming shut.

_They're safe, that's good, _thought Dean. _Now to worry about myself._

He clamped his hands around the zombie's neck and forced it back as hard as he could, but it still only gave way a few inches, due to the monster's seemingly inhuman strength. The creature made another snap at his face, but it missed. He still got a face full of its rancid breath though.

"Ugh, get a breath mint!" he grunted, trying to force its face further away. He was getting tired, but he couldn't let himself rest now, otherwise he'd be dead. Also, he was surprised that no more zombies had approached, cause if a second zombie had joined in when he was trying to fight this one off, he'd be truly screwed.

With a bit more exertion, he managed to bring one of his feet up and place it into the chest of the zombie, and then with all his might he pushed, sending the undead creature flying off of him and onto its back. He gasped in relief, since he didn't have to put up with its rancid breath anymore, but he couldn't rest just yet. Groaning, he forced himself into sitting up.

Campbell groaned as he got to his feet, the stinging pain in the back of his head having alleviated somewhat, but still giving some cause for concern.

"Adam you fucker!" he roared, turning to find that the courtyard was practically empty of people. He grinded his teeth together and gripped his handgun tighter, fixing his gaze upon the double doors into the clock tower. He began to approach, intent on making them all pay for trying to stand against him.

BANG!

A gunshot rang out, and blood spurted from Campbell's right shoulder. He cried out in agony and dropped his handgun in a reflex action, and clamping his other hand onto the fresh wound. He turned around to find Dean Travers facing him, on his feet now and aiming his MP5 towards him, fresh smoke trailing off of the barrel.

"The next one will be in your face," snarled the cop defiantly, despite the handful of zombies that were approaching him from behind. Campbell just sneered in contempt, his right hand carefully reaching for the mine thrower at his back.

"You're going straight to hell," he growled.

"After you," retorted Dean, spotting the crazed man's arm movement.

BANG!

He fired again, but Campbell had ducked down, the bullet smacking into the double doors behind him instead. He drew the mine launcher in one fluid movement and aimed it, but Dean was too quick for him, firing another shot that ricocheted off of the courtyard ground and buried itself into Campbell's left thigh. He cried out in pain and shock again, his aim dropping, but in the blink of an eye he was on his feet and running for the double doors, disappearing through them before Dean could do anything else.

Hearing the moaning from behind him, he turned and fired into the face of another zombie that was just inches away from him: and it happened to be the one that had nearly killed him before. Backing away as it hit the floor for the last time, he scanned his surroundings. There were only a few zombies between him and the open courtyard doors, and on the ground where the corpses of many more of their kind, and a few that were feasting upon the dead forms of Sam and Joe. Dean tried not to think about that last piece of info, as it made him realise that he couldn't help them anymore now.

His foot tapped against something and he glanced down to see his shotgun lying there. He had no idea how it had ended up there, but it was likely that Zac had dropped it at some point during the recent scuffle. But either way, it'd be a shame to just leave it there, and he scooped it up quickly, putting away his MP5 as he did so. It'd be a shame to leave it behind, he thought.

With his shotgun now armed, he looked back over his shoulder at the doors into the clock tower. Going back in there would be backing himself into the corner, and Campbell was still alive and running about in there, and he probably wouldn't hesitate to shoot Dean dead, or anyone else for that matter. The guy was a psycho to begin with, and a huge liability. As for Adam and the other survivors…all he could do was hope that they'd be allright and somewhere safe. He'd have to worry about himself then.

With a sharp intake of breath, he sprinted at the zombies, dodging sideways around them at the last second, one of them lunging for him and falling flat onto its face into the bargain. In a flash he was past them and through the doors out onto the street. He looked left and right, seeing a small number of zombies on both sides of him, but less to the right of him, so he took that route. He dodged around and past them, having plenty of room to do, and headed west, down Raccoon Street. He didn't know where he was going, just as long as it was somewhere safe.

But it wouldn't last long: the street ahead of him was blocked off completely. An articulated truck had jack-knifed in the street and crashed front-first into an apartment building, with a good portion of the brick building having collapsed onto the truck cab itself. Also, the trailer hade blocked off the street, with numerous other cars stopped before the trailer, a good number of them partially crushed as they couldn't stop in time to stop crashing into the low trailer. A good number of them had the driver's doors left wide open as well, probably when the occupants fled during the initial chaos.

He cursed and looked around, seeing that the route he had just taken was being cut off by zombies that were emerging from the alleyways and shops in the immediate street area. He couldn't go back, so he looked around, for any other route he could use-

His eyes settled on a staircase to his left, a staircase that would lead down into one of the city's subway stations. But right now, it offered Dean some way out of his current predicament. But he was feeling a little uneasy with the prospect of going down there. Down into where it would likely be pitch black darkness.

_But I don't have much of a choice right now, and I'll take the darkness over being eaten alive any day._

Taking another slight pause for breath, Dean dashed for the stairway, circling the barrier and descending the concrete steps two at a time. He was soon at the bottom, face to face with a heavy looking door.

_If this thing's locked-_

He pulled at the handle, and it opened with ease. He gave a huge sigh of relief as he pulled the door open fully and stepped inside.

Everything went dark as the door swung shut.

They were in the back store room of the clock tower now, a room with 3 antique-looking clocks mounted on one of the walls, each one depicting the past, present and future respectively. There was also a back door, but it was blocked by a spare bell for the tower and none of them could move it. So they stayed there.

Angela sat in the corner, face in her hands, weeping uncontrollably, as Zac stood by, offering her any form of comfort he could offer. Roger and Paula were in the other corner, huddled together, him trying to stop his daughter from crying her eyes out as well. Adam stood off to the side, leaning against the wall, staring ahead into space. He wanted to offer some words of support and confidence to give them hope, but he couldn't think of anything. But he was happy, as long as Campbell wasn't there anymore, and that he could keep them alive for a bit alonger. But beyond that, he couldn't think of anything he could do for them.

"So now what do we do?" asked Zac suddenly. Adam met the young man's gaze and shook his head.

"I have no idea."

And the worst part was, he was telling the truth.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: Resident Evil is a registered trademark of Capcom. **

Chapter 12: Deeper Underground

**September 27****th**** 0455 hours**

_Can't go back that way now. Unless I'm feeling suicidal of course._

Dean considered his options as he looked back towards the door that he had now barred with a nearby bench. He'd barely managed to make it this far in one piece, and now he was stuck down here in the dark depths of Raccoon's Subway system. And it was dark as he could possible imagine: even with the torch attachment on his MP5 activated, he could still only see about 10 feet in front of him. Who knew what could be lurking down here, just waiting for him to pass by?

He couldn't go back to the clock tower now, even if he managed to find another way back there. Campbell had just tried to kill him, and he knew that if he found himself in the same room as the two-faced mercenary he'd beat him to detah with his bare hands if he could. At least 2 of the civilian survivors hiding in the tower were dead too as well: only Zac, Angela, Roger and Paula were dragged to safety, before he had to make a very quick getaway. He hoped that Adam could be trusted to look after them, at least until the chopper came. He also thought of Nick and the rest of his squad that he was separated from. Were they all dead now, or would they be able to reach the clock tower in one piece? If so, then maybe Nick would give Campbell what for if he found out about what he'd done. Or maybe they'd stay away when they saw the zombies still lingering about in its grounds?

Anyways, he'd have to think about the here and the now at the moment. If he was in a Subway station, there was always a chance that he could find a train intact on the tracks and use it to at least get away from that part of town, or even reach the train yard on the outskirts of town, meaning there was less distance for him to travel to escape the damned place for good. His thoughts then turned to Ben.

_Is he still alive somewhere? Hiding out safe? Or is he dead too? _

He shook off that last thought.

_Oh shut up. He's fine somewhere. Ben was always a fighter, he'll make it out of this shit hole. _

He levelled his SMG in front of him, using the torch beam to guide him through the open entrance that opened out into a set of stairs leading down into the darkness. He descended them two at a time, in a rush to get the hell out of there.

_Jesus, it's so damned quiet down here. _

He was right: on the streets, the constant moaning of nearby undead, combined with the crackling of fires and the wind blowing through the streets filled his ears. Down here, there was nothing. Just an endless, empty silence. In many ways, that was worse than being surrounded by noise: there wasn't much indication of any immediate threats to him. All he could here were his own hurried gasping breaths, still fatigued from when he was running for his life just before, and his own beating heart, thumping against his ribcage and sounding as though it were ready to burst out at any minute.

Soon he came into the turnstile area, which seemed relatively untouched by the chaos he'd originally seen up on the streets. There was nothing overturned or destroyed, although a trash bin had been overturned and a few bloodstains stained the floor. Looking towards the turnstiles, he could see that someone or something had wrenched one of the mechanisms off of its fittings, just leaving it discarded off to the side. The glass in the ticket booths had been smashed as well, leaving the body of a subway attendant slumped over the jagged ridge of glass protruding from the empty sill. Blood covered the man's dark blue uniform, and a few bite marks were also present on his upper body, which showed Dean that there could be zombies nearby. Carefully, he pushed through the space where the turnstile originally was, shining his light forwards. The beam illuminated a human figure slumped over by another set of steps, rising to its feet as the torch passed over it.

This zombie was originally a well-dressed businessman by the looks of things, wearing a white shirt underneath a black jacket, along with black slacks and a brown tie. An ugly wound on his neck showed his cause of death, with a huge amount of blood staining the once-white shirt. Dried blood was caked around its mouth, and it let off a drawn-out moan as it made its advance towards the still-living cop. With a shake of his head, Dean raised his SMG and fired a single round into the monster's face. There was a splat, a spray of blood, and the creature's head snapped backwards from the force of the round hitting it. It took a slight step backwards, before it suddenly fell over the top stairs and it fell out of Dean's view. He heard a few thumps and the sound of something breaking, quickly followed by a wet thud as it sounded like the zombie had finally reached the bottom of the stairs.

Checking around for any other threats, he made his way into the open ticket booth, towards the slumped body of the deceased booth attendant. Glass crunched underneath his feet with each step as he carefully eyed the attendant, seeing if he were to rise up again. He held his breath as he watched and waited, for what seemed like an eternity but what was probably only about 10 seconds at the most.

When he was sure that the dead body was staying put, he carefully reached a hand into the pockets of the man's jacket, reaching about for anything that could help him out. His fingers brushed something metallic in the left breast, and he pulled out a key on a small plastic key ring. A label on the key ring simply read 'Employee Area'.

Slipping the object into his pocket, Dean left the cramped confines of the ticket booth behind, making his way back towards the stairs he'd just sent that zombie falling down. Shining his light down, he could make out its body lying in a bloody heap, its neck and one of its legs contorted into painful positions due to the way it was now lying. Aside from that, it looked danger-free down there, and he was about ready to make his way down there when his eye caught something else.

It was a colour-coded map of the subway system below Raccoon City, indicating which lines linked to which and the distances between each. A large red circle indicated that he was currently at the 12th Street Station, underneath Raccoon Street, one of the major roads in the city. According to this map, this line would take him all the way to Bachman Street Station, which was about 2 miles away from the southern edge of the city limits. It wouldn't get him out of the city, but it was better than nothing, he supposed. Now all he had to do was pray to the Gods that there was still a train here he could use. And that there wouldn't be any zombies down there to slow him down.

He made his way back to the top of the stairs, preparing to descend them, before some internal radar made him stop dead where he was standing. His grip on his weapon tightened somewhat, just as he felt something hot and rancid on the back of his neck, and the touch of cold fingers upon his shoulder.

With a cry of surprise, he ducked down, grabbing onto the arm of his unknown assailant and wrenching it down over his head in one fluid motion. He heard a shoulder pop out of its socket, and saw a human shape fly over him, bouncing down the steps with several painful crunches until it finally came to a stop next to the corpse of the businessman. Shining his torch light down, he saw that it was the subway attendant he was examining before, his eyes now wide open and showing a milky white colour. Looked like he wasn't quite as dead as Dean had originally thought.

"Damn, that was close," he thought aloud to himself. He also thought of how quite this zombie had snuck up on him, not making a sound at all, no moan, no dragging footsteps, nothing. He wondered if there were more zombies who moved this quietly. And he was by himself as well, so there was nobody to watch his back for him. "Gotta be more careful down here," he muttered to himself, as he carefully descended the stairs, skirting around the fallen zombies at the bottom of the steps.

He found himself standing in another open area, this one with a set of benches in the middle, along with a couple of payphones, hanging off of their wall mountings. A broken leather briefcase lay on one of the benches, with loose papers scattered all around it, with the initials 'BB' inscribed upon the leather near to the handles. He looked around some more, noticing 3 doors on the far side of the room, and two sets of stairs leading down onto the North and South platforms, as indicated by the signs on the walls by each set of steps. Deciding that he'd investigate the platforms first, he made his way towards the south platform entrance, as the train he was looking for could potentially be located there. He was about to descend the concrete stairs when he noticed the locked iron gates that were barring the way down.

"So much for that route…" Dean muttered, as he made his way back towards the steps down to the Northern platform. If they weren't barred off, he could potentially get down onto the other platform and cross the tracks to the other side. To his luck, the other stairs weren't barred off. He descended them slowly, his steps echoing down the abandoned passages.

He emerged out onto the main platform itself, to find it empty of any kind of train, as he might have expected. Litter was strewn about the platform in a random fashion, along with a few pieces of rubble. The roof of the platform area actually had a few holes broken through them, allowing some light to filter in from above, alleviating the darkness somewhat, but dean still kept his flash-light lit as he scoured the area for any potential threats. Moans also filtered through from the streets above, indicating that the zombie threat was still lurking up there. Then as he looked across the tracks, he saw what could potentially be his salvation: a lone subway train, consisting of 3 carriages, sat at the south-bound platform, seemingly untouched by the chaos engulfing Raccoon City.

Blessing his luck, he quickly dropped down onto the tracks and made his way over to the other side of the area, being careful not to step on any of the rails and get himself jolted with several thousand volts of electricity, the last thing he needed now. Soon he was at the opposite side of the area, pulling himself up onto the low platform. Shining his torch beam across the machine, he could see that it seemed relatively intact, aside from the debris which had fallen onto the last car of the chain, contorting the outside of the carriage significantly. Some of the debris had also fallen onto the coupling that attached the carriage to the others, which meant that he would have to detach that carriage from the others before he could use the train. Examining the train further, he saw that one of the side doors was wide open, so he carefully entered the front carriage, his torch cutting through the dark interior.

The carriage interior was relatively empty, aside from some scattered litter from whoever had last used the car. Shifting the light across the control panel at the front of the car, he picked out the numerous buttons and levers that the driver used on a daily basis. He briefly considered trying a few of the buttons to see which one would start the train, but Dean didn't know the first thing about Subway trains to even try to guess which would take him to freedom.

"Fuck's sake," he muttered, giving the control panel a kick. But then again, did he expect it to be that easy? Looking about a little more, he turned up the instruction manual and began to flick through it to find the 'in case of an emergency' section. Squinting to read the writing through the limited light, he soon found the section he was after.

_In case of a power cut, reactivate the power source in the closest generator room. There is one generator room per subway station, located in the levels below the platform level. If there are problems with the generator, activate the emergency power supply instead, also located in the basement area. _

_Please bear in mind that the train will only work if the line is cleared of all obstructions and that there is nothing interfering with the carriage couplings, otherwise the train's lockdown system will be engaged. _

"Yeah, that helps," muttered Dean, throwing the manual away from him. So, he just had to find the generator room and get it up and working again. Easy, right? Except he had no idea where to start looking. Then he remembered all those doors up on the upper floor, and realised that he hadn't looked behind those yet. So he decided that he'd start there. Stepping out of the carriage, he swung his SMG this way and that, looking for anything in the darkness that could possibly help or hinder him. His torch wandered over the opening leading into the Southern set of stairs, and unexpectedly, over someone's feet.

Tensing his body up, the cop carefully approached the body, waiting to see if it was going to rise up again and try to bite his face off. He was 10 feet away from it and it still hadn't moved, so he assumed that it would be safe to approach the body without endangering himself. He made sure to keep himself at least a couple of feet away as he rounded the corner to keep it in full view though, in case there was anything beyond the body waiting to attack him. Luckily, nothing came shambling out of the shadows to attack him and tear a chunk of flesh out of his face. He shifted his attention back down to the body, which he could now see was dressed in the white shirt and black dress trousers of the R.P.D…

"Shit!" he swore, stooping down to take a closer look at the body. He could now make out the man's blonde hair and blue eyes, which thankfully didn't show any sign of him becoming a zombie anytime soon. That was because of the single, neat bullet wound in the man's right temple, and the huge amount of blood that had pooled beneath his slumped form. A Beretta M92F was in his right hand, standard-issue amongst R.P.D officers. The slide had locked back into place, indicating that the weapon was empty. Looked like he had saved the last bullet for himself…

A neatly-folded piece of white paper was resting just inches away from the blood pool, and out of curiosity, Dean picked it up and opened it out, finding a handwritten message on it, scrawled in black ink:

_It's all over._

_I've been running for nearly a whole day now, and no matter where I turn I'm constantly reminded of the shit this town is going through. Those 'zombies' attack me at every turn, and no matter how many I gun down, another takes its place. The worst part is when I have to shoot someone I used to know: an hour ago I had to kill Eric. Poor bastard had become one of them. Funny how someone you used to eat lunch and share jokes with could go from that to trying to eat you alive…_

_But that's beside the facts. I've failed everyone. I'm sorry guys, but I'm just a coward at heart. The world will be a better place without me. I hope that my dead body doesn't rise up again as one of them…_

_Please forgive me guys._

_Jean Harlow_

Looking again, Dean indeed saw that this was in fact Jean, the same blonde-haired officer he'd been fighting next to at the barricade the day before. If he was here, chances were that he got separated from the other at some point during their fall back to the station. The poor guy must've just given up all hope of getting out of here all together and chosen to just end it there and then. It was probably for the best though: he'd rather that one of his colleagues died a human rather than become one of those damned zombies and having someone else put him down like a rabid dog.

Paying his last respects to his fallen comrade, Dean stood back up and looked about, seeing that he was now on the opposite side of the iron gates that had previously barred his path down here before. He also saw that someone had locked them tightly with an old rusty padlock, hardly the most secure way of locking a place off. Walking up to the padlock, he figured all it would take was a decent amount of force to break it off. Setting aside his SMG and pulling out his handgun, he raised it up and brought the butt down on the object.

There was a resounding clang and the padlock shook, but it stayed in place. With a sigh, Dean put a bit more force into his next blow, but the lock only rattled again. He raised his arm higher before he delivered the next blow, and the lock finally broke loose with a snap, falling to the ground in two separate pieces. At almost the same time, the gates began to swing open slightly by themselves.

"Well that wasn't so hard," Dean thought aloud, pushing the gates open fully, which came to a rest against the concrete walls. With a more immediate access route to the train opened up, he ascended the steps again to the main area, preparing to explore the rest of the station to try and find the power supply to switch back on.

As he ascended, something small and fast skittered across the platform surface, into the darkness.

He was just entering the upper area when he suddenly heard the gunfire.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

3 shots rang out, one after the other, closely followed by the sound of a body hitting the floor. The sounds were muffled somewhat, but still sounded clearly, indicating that it was quite near to him. Quickly, Dean worked himself into a crouched position behind one of the benches near to him and killed his light, waiting for anything or anyone to show up. Once more, darkness descended over him, leaving him in pitch black, but after a few seconds, his eyes adjusted to the limited light, and he began to make out other details all around him, such as the posters on the wall and the scattered drinks cans near to him. Then he heard voices, muffled but still close enough to be heard.

"They're even down here," muttered a male voice.

"Well either way, as long as we got ammo we can deal with them," replied another male voice, this one a bit clearer than the first.

"Yeah, but how many more?" asked a female voice. "And do we have enough bullets for every one?"

"Oh come on," reassured the second male, "I'm here to protect you, do don't you worry your pretty little head."

"Screw you," snapped the female. "Hey look, there's a door. Maybe it leads down to the platforms?"

A second later, Dean heard a door knob rattle from close by, and he peeked out from his hiding place to see the knob of the door at the far side of the room across from him was rattling. Looked like someone else was trying to take refuge down here.

"It's locked!" cried the female.

"Oh for fuck's sake…here, let me try!" A few second later, there was a bang and the door rattled on its hinges a little. After a short pause, it rattled again. It sounded like someone was trying to kick the door down from the other side as it was locked.

After a few more violent kicks, the door finally crashed open and Dean ducked back behind his hiding spot. Footsteps entered the area he was in and panned out from one another.

"Man, what a dump," said one of the males, his voice deep and raspy.

"What did you expect? The 5 star treatments?" retorted the other man there. There was only a grumble in response. Dean slowed his breathing down as the steps drew nearer and nearer to him. He carefully and quietly reached for the switch on his torch.

"Come on boys, the sooner we find a train the sooner we can get out of here." The steps were only a few feet away from him now. Even though these people were still human, he couldn't take any chances, lest they try and shoot him dead. They might all have been the same species, but recent experience had taught him that not everyone left alive in this city would be willing to help each other out. With a deep inhale of breath, he stood himself upright and flicked his torch into life, pointing the barrel of his SMG at the new arrivals.

The bright beam illuminated a figure in front of him, forcing them and the others behind it to shield their eyes from the sudden burst of light.

"FREEZE!" he cried, as loud as he could manage with a set of lungs that were in need of a long rest.

"Don't shoot! We're human!" cried a surprised but strangely familiar voice.

"Hey! Would you mind pointing that damned light someplace else?!" half-shouted a female voice. The other man accompanying the first two said nothing as he stood at the rear of the group.

"Sorry," replied Dean, lowering his SMG and pointing the flashlight elsewhere. "I didn't know if any of you could be a threat or not."

"Well that's comforting," replied the female in a sarcastic manner.

"Hold on a sec," asked the first voice. "Is that you Dean?"

"Huh?" As he looked closer, Dean could make out the details of the first man of this little group. He was dressed in black body armour with the letters 'R.P.D' emblazoned across them, marking him out as a cop. He was also wearing black combat trousers and boots, along with fingerless gloves. The man had a Colt .45 handgun holstered at his waist, and Dean could also make out his mid-length brown hair and stubble.

"…Kevin? Kevin Ryman?" Dean asked after a rather long pause.

"Holy shit! Dean, it is you!" cried the very same cop that Dean had been talking to the morning before. In all that time, he'd never think he'd end up running into another surviving police officer through all of this, let alone someone he'd actually spoken to before it all went to hell. Next thing he knew, he was being caught by surprise, being lifted up in a bear hug, the breath being squeezed from him.

"I'd given up hope of finding anyone alive in this shit fest!" Kevin.

"Uh, yeah, that's great," muttered Dean, trying hard to breath. "Now could you let me go please before I suffocate?"

"Oh! Sorry," replied Kevin in a somewhat sheepish manner, letting his colleague go finally. Dean brushed himself down before Kevin continued. "What the hell are you doing down here anyways?"

"Looking for a damn ride out of this cluster fuck situation, that's what."

"Yeah, us too."

"Ahem!" said a new voice from behind the two cops. Dean looked past his colleague's form to see the two other people in this small group. The first figure was a female who looked about Dean's age. She was wearing a red suit that would've been immaculate in appearance if it weren't for the dark stains and tears in it in a few places. She had stylishly-cut blonde hair that came out a short distance, covering one of her eyes. The way she had her arms crossed in front of her created an air of arrogance around her.

The other member of the group was a man a bit taller than Dean, wearing dirty work clothes that were a light brown in colour, along with what looked like a tool belt clipped around his waist. He had black hair and a fair amount of stubble on his chin, and he was holding a Remington M110 sawn-off shotgun in his hand. The man had said nothing so far, and his eyes seemed to have a lot of strength behind them.

"Oh, sorry," said Kevin. "This is Alyssa and David. She's a local reporter and he's a plumber. They were at J's Bar with me when everything went to hell. Guys, this is my colleague Dean Travers."

_A cop, a reporter and a plumber? _Thought Dean. _Very motley crew…_

"Hey," said David, offering Dean a nod. His voice was low and raspy in nature.

"Wait, he's a cop?" asked Alyssa with a sneer. "No offence honey, but you don't exactly look the part."

Dean sighed and crossed his arms. "Well I'm sorry but my uniform is currently in my apartment across the city. But, if you don't mind waiting, I could always go get it and put it on if it makes you feel a little better?" She just turned away in response, while the plumber suppressed a snigger.

"Hey come on people, play nice," said Kevin, getting in between the arguing survivors. "Whatever he looks like, we need all the help we can get."

"So is it just you 3 or are there others?" asked Dean, trying to work out how much better their odds was now that he wasn't alone.

"Well…" started Kevin.

"There were quite a few of us," interjected Alyessa. "Except we got separated when we were making our way to the police station. I hope they're all OK…" Dean looked up to see that David wasn't standing there any longer. Then a door opened and the plumber reappeared, holding what looked like a box of handgun ammunition.

"Here," he said, passing the box to the reporter, who graciously took it and began reloading a Browning HP handgun that she had tucked into one of her jacket pockets.

"Yeah," said Kevin, picking up Alyssa's story. "I was just sitting in J's Bar having a few drinks, then next thing I know these crazed people start banging down the door and try to kill us. I managed to lead us away from there out of danger, but when we were near the station we got attacked by a load of zombies and we got split up. So we ended up here."

"Damn," muttered Dean, taking the story in. "I was at the Main Street barricade. Those bastards just swept in and killed most of us in a matter of moments. I only barely got out of there in one piece."

"Was there anyone else with you?" asked Kevin, trying to find out if any more of colleagues were still alive somewhere.

Dean sighed heavily before he replied. "I was able to get back to the station, but half of the survivors were dead and the other half managed to escape in a riot van. That was yesterday, so God knows where they are right now. It wouldn't have been worth you guys going back there at any rate."

"Damn," muttered Kevin, hanging his head. But then he raised it to look at Dean and offered a weak smile. "Oh well. Every person helps I suppose. Quite a stroke of luck we ran into you down here."

"I'd say," beamed Dean.

"But then why are you down here?" asked Kevin afterwards.

"Well I ran into some other survivors and we were laying low in the clock tower," explained Dean, being careful to leave out the part about Umbrella mercenaries. "But then we had to leave in a hurry and ended up getting separated from the main group…so here I am."

"Oh well, there's not really much else you could have done for them. You need to worry about yourself as well."

"Uh guys, I hate to break up the reunion here," said Alyssa suddenly, getting the attention of the two cops, "but I for one would like to get out of here as soon as possible please." She looked around a bit, as if searching for imminent danger.

"Scared are we?" joked David. "That's not like you at all, Alyssa." She only scowled in response as the plumber walked past her to re-join the others. Dean guessed she was one of these people who were full of themselves, but in reality was probably as scared as everyone else was likely to be.

"Right," said Kevin, looking at Dean, "we were looking for a train we could use to get out of here. You had any luck in finding one?"

"As a matter of fact," replied Dean with a smile, "I just came across one before I met you guys. Here, I'll lead the way."

"Well that was very lucky I suppose," said Alyssa with folded arms, as Kevin examined the train that Dean had lead them to. David stood off to the side, leaning against a pillar with his arms folded in front of him. Every now and then he'd glance behind him, checking for danger in the darkness.

"Well if we got the power back on and detached the last car," said Kevin as he stepped back out onto the open platform, "we could use this to get out of town if luck's on our side." Nice to see that, even in times like this, Kevin still kept an optimistic mood about him.

"Yeah," replied Dean, arming his MP5 once again, "I was just about to go looking for the power room when you all showed up."

"Well then, let's find it and get the hell outta here," said David finally, walking over from his position at the wall and levelling his shotgun before him.

"What's the matter David? Scared?" asked Alyssa, referencing the man's earlier comment to her.

"Not on your life," retorted the plumber, "but being down in the dark at a time like this makes a little uneasy. Don't you feel it too?" As if to reinforce his point, there was a sound from somewhere within the darkness, that sounded almost like a chirping noise. Everyone looked about themselves, their weapons aimed ahead of them. Dean quickly nosed his torch into the nearest dark recesses around them.

"Yeah, I think its best we get out of here quickly," responded Kevin, who had drawn his Colt now. He began to lead the way back up the steps to the upper level, closely followed by the two civilian survivors, with Dean bringing up the rear, shining his torch back and forth if anything were to show its ugly face. Luckily, nothing happened as they retreated. On the way back up, Kevin paused by the body of Jean, lying with his back up against the concrete wall.

"Damn, what a waste…" he muttered darkly, just as another chirping reverberated off of the walls in the subway tunnel. They quickly moved on, watching their retreat as they went.

Soon they were stood by the red door that was upstairs. The words 'STAFF ONLY' were printed across a white plaque across the top of the door itself.

Kevin walked up to the door and gave the handle a pull, but it didn't give way. He pulled harder, even giving it a few solid kicks, but it remained stubbornly in place. "Damn thing's locked!"

"We can see that," replied David in a sardonic tone. "We need to find the key for it. Should be around here somewhere…"

"Problem solved," replied Dean, pulling the key he had acquired from the dead body earlier and sliding it into the lock. He gave it a turn, and the lock clicked open with ease. He opened the door wide for his companions and stepped aside, gesturing for them to enter. "After you."

Kevin gave a smirk. "Nice one Dean. Where you'd get that key from?"

Dean didn't reply, he only looked past them towards the foot of the stairs behind the group. They all turned, looking at the broken body of a zombified subway employee, his form crumpled into a painful position. Alyssa's face turned ashen as he she turned away from the sight.

"Well," she said, breaking the silence, "I suppose you have to be a bit immoral to get by here…"

"Let's just go," said Kevin in a commanding tone, leading the way into the open door, as Dean shone his light through to illuminate the path forward. He didn't seem to mind following someone else's lead (after all, in his and Ben's working relationship Ben was the superior officer in terms of rank) as he allowed Alyssa and David to pass through, before he followed them in, closing the door behind him as he went. Inside, plain concrete walls greeted them, stretching off into the distance, cumulating in another red-coloured door. Halfway down the passage, it turned off to the left, while a couple more of plain-coloured doors decorated the passage. It was painfully quiet, and the darkness in here seemed twice as bad as it was outside.

"Well," said Alyssa, breaking the silence, "the power room's in here somewhere isn't it?"

"Should be," replied Dean, raising his SMG. "Come on, I'll lead. I'm the only one with a torch anyways."

"Yeah," agreed Kevin. "I'll cover you." Dean carefully advanced down the passage, Kevin following him just off to his left, the .45 aiming over the lead man's shoulder. The two civilians followed close behind, apparently having no objections over having to cover the rear of the little formation. They had just reached the first door when they heard very familiar sounds: drawn-out moaning. They all froze in place.

"Damn!" hissed David, raising his shotgun.

"More of them," whispered Kevin. The sounds appeared to be coming from the left, probably from around that corner ahead. He looked towards Dean. "Let's go get 'em," he said, with a smile.

"Sure thing," replied Dean, returning the gesture. He advanced towards the corner, his SMG still raised, closely followed by Kevin, their footsteps echoing along the passage. Dean quickly sidestepped around the corner, his torch beam shining down the new passageway. The light illuminated the outline of two figures standing about 15 feet away from him, dressed in the dark blue of subway employees, slightly swaying where they stood. A second later, they began to approach him, dragging their legs beneath them. He moved his light slightly, catching a glimpse of pale, rotting flesh on the face of one of them. That was all the proof he needed.

BANG!

And impossibly-loud bang sounded next to his left ear, and he shirked away from it, just as he heard a wet thud. He quickly looked back to see that Kevin had fired his .45 right next to his ear, threatening to deafen him into submission. One of the zombies lay on its back, but its companion continued to advance. Kevin readjusted his aim and fired again, the round finding its way into the monster's face. It exploded like a water balloon, sending shards of skull and brain matter up the walls and onto the ceiling around it as it too, fell to the ground. That's when Dean remembered that Kevin's weapon was a .45 caliber, much more powerful than the standard 9mm. Probably too powerful to be carried as standard-issue as well, but that wasn't a concern now.

"Damn, nice mess," said David from behind Dean, commenting on that last kill. Dean sighed and lowered his rifle with the current danger passed, moving around to look at the rest of his companions, as Kevin reloaded his .45 by pushing some loose rounds into the exit chamber of the weapon where empty shell casings would be ejected from.

"I meant to ask earlier," said Dean suddenly, as Kevin holstered his weapon. "How are you holding up for weapons?"

"I've just got this," said Alyssa suddenly, showing Dean her handgun. "I've got about 60 spare rounds for it, thanks to David, but no spare mags. I can just reload it like Kevin was just now."

"Better than nothing I suppose," replied Dean, turning towards David the plumber.

"Well I have this, as you can see," rasped the young man as he showed the Remington sawn-off. "Got a full case of shells left for it, but I'm gonna need a re-fill sometime soon. And I've got this as well, just in case," he continued, pulling out a .38 revolver from the back of his work pants.

"As for me," interjected Kevin, pulling out his .45 again, "I've still got enough rounds for 3 full mags for this bad boy, but I've had a hard time finding more ammo for it. I could do with another gun…"

"Here," said Dean, quickly un-slinging his shotgun and passing it to his colleague, who took it after a short pause. After that, he passed him the few handfuls of shells to him. "I've got this MP5 for the moment, so feel free to use it. I want it back when you do find a decent replacement weapon though!"

"Don't worry, I'll take good care of her," smiled Kevin as he checked to see how many shells were in the tube magazine, before slinging it over his shoulder and holding it before him. "Where'd you get that MP5 anyways?."

"I got it off of a dead body I found on the street," explained Dean, getting another accusing glare from Alyssa. "Hey, he wouldn't be needing it anymore and it would serve me better, so don't look at me like that!" She just turned away from him.

CRASH!

The door opposite where the group had originally entered the employee area was suddenly slammed off of its hinges, making them all jump in a startled fashion. A few more zombies piled into the cramped space, practically falling over each other to try and get to the survivors. A woman with dirty blonde hair and with her nose missing lead the charge. Everyone went for their guns, but it was Alyssa who beat the men to the punch. She fired twice, both shots punching through the woman's forehead and sending her to the floor. Dean couldn't help but mentally admit that she was a hell of a shot.

Dean tried to aim his MP5 and fire it, but the cramped conditions didn't help matters much, and his initial burst went into the shoulder of a young man wearing a hooded sweatshirt, snapping off the limb into the bargain. David would be the one to follow up, firing a blast into the man's torso, tearing a bloody crater into the chest cavity. The man hit the floor a second later. By then, Kevin had managed to get a bead on the next zombie in line, but Dean was quicker and fired a single 9mm round into its face.

That left just one lone zombie, another male, dragging a broken leg behind it. David stepped up, reaching into his tool belt and pulling out a lug wrench. Lifting it above his head, he tossed it as hard as he could into the monster's face. There was a crunch as half of its face caved in on itself, and it fell to the ground with a wet splat.

"Nice shot," complimented Dean with a smirk. The plumber turned back to face him.

"Thanks. A little trick I learned when-"

He didn't get a chance to finish when the door to the man's right crashed open suddenly and another zombie suddenly lunged out, grabbing for the plumber with dirt-encrusted fingernails. Luckily, he managed to get his arms up in time to grab onto the zombie's neck, holding its face back from his neck. The others raised their own weapons in an attempt to help the young man,

"David!" cried Alyssa, raising her handgun, before Dean lowered it with his hand.

"Don't! You might hit him!" he warned. She only bit her lip and looked up at the taller man in response, before looking back towards the struggle.

David and his zombie opponent struggled back and forth, slamming into the walls on either side of them a few times, the plumber crying out whenever he collided with the concrete, sometimes just barely managing to force the zombie back as its teeth came within inches of his neck. After a few rounds of the back-and-forth struggle, the plumber rested his back against the wall, holding the zombie back by the jaw with just his left hand while his right hand reached into his tool belt. As the zombie was getting closer and closer to his jugular, David suddenly withdrew what looked like a small folding knife from his belt and jabbed it into the side of the zombie's head. It convulsed slightly, and he drove the knife in again and again. After at least 5 stabs, the zombie finally let go of its intended prey and fell backwards, slumping against the wall and sliding to the ground slowly, leaving a massive blood trail down the concrete as it did so.

The plumber panted hard as he looked back towards his companions, leaning up against the wall behind him as he did so.

"You allright?" asked a concerned Alyssa.

"Yeah, relatively speaking," David replied eventually, giving the dead zombie a kick to make sure it was dead before walking back to re-join his companions. "That's something else I learned a while back."

"A while back? What does that mean?" asked Dean curiously.

"Come look at this, guys!" called out Kevin, who had now disappeared into where the zombie had originally emerged from. They others followed him in to find themselves in a cramped staff room, with a table covered in various random papers surrounded by several chairs, along with a kitchen counter with empty mugs and cups on it, along with a sink half filled with dirty water. Bloodstains littered the ground, probably belonging to that zombie that was now dead again outside in the hall.

"Someone needs to sack the cleaner," quipped David from the back of the gathering, apparently already over his close-up scuffle with a zombie. The others just ignored him as Kevin showed them something.

"Look, I found this!" he said, holding up a map of the subway system. Now at least they'd be able to find their way around in the dark a little easier. There were a few copies, so Kevin passed them around, as Dean took note of the location of the power room, which was apparently just down the corridor from where they currently where. Not far to look at least.

"Nice find," said Alyssa, examining her copy. "Looks like we haven't got far to look then for the power room," she continued, echoing Dean's thoughts exactly.

"Hold on," said Kevin suddenly, picking another note up that had fallen onto the floor and was marked with a few bloodspots. "This could be helpful too." He began to read it out to the rest of them.

_If anyone still human comes across this, you should know that the storeroom has a few supplies in it that I'd been gathering in case of an emergency the transit services didn't formally train us for. Trust me, you'll have better use of it than me: I've been bitten by one of those things, now it's only a matter of time until I become one of them. To get into the storeroom, you'll need to get both the power on, and have to input a 4-digit code to open the door. I left the code with Ricky, of he's still alive somewhere at any rate. And if you do manage to get in, I wish you luck in getting out alive. _

"Supplies?" asked Alyssa to no-one in particular. "What did he mean by that?"

"Won't know unless we find that storeroom," replied David, to the point. He rummaged the room some more, and pulled out a torch that was buried among the stack of papers to their left. He gave it a shake and a few taps, before he clicked the power switch a few times, just to be sure that it worked. A small white beam of light cut through the limited light of the room, not as powerful as Dean's torch attatchment, but enough to suffice down here.

"Here, we could use this!" he said, tossing it towards his companions. Kevin quickly caught it out of mid-air, as David went back to his rummaging, and soon pulled a lighter out of thin-air seemingly. After some more rummaging, he also found what looked like a can of hair-spray. "This should do," he murmured.

"No offence, but what do you plan to do with those?" asked Dean. The plumber didn't respond, as he reached into his took belt and pulled out a roll of duct tape. Then carefully, he worked on unwinding some tape and using it to stick the lighter to the front of the hair-spray can, so that the flame would be in line with the nozzle when the lighter was lit. In effect, he'd just made a home-made flame-thrower.

"You know, that is pretty resourceful," smiled Dean as David passed the new weapon to him.

"Well you ain't seen the half of it," interjected Alyssa. "A while back he made a sledgehammer using an iron pole and a chunk of concrete. And he managed to fix a shotgun when it got broken!"

"Yeah, yeah," mumbled David, passing the makeshift flame-thrower to Dean, who gratefully tucked it into the back of his jeans, even as the plumber approached Kevin, then began to tape the torch the man had just acquired onto the barrel of his shotgun, so he wouldn't need to hold both of them separately.

"Gee, thanks David," said Kevin, looking at the end of the shotgun with the attached torch.

"Just pulling my weight around here," mumbled the plumber, turning and walking straight out the room.

"Hey hold up!" cried Kevin as he followed his companion out back into the hall, closely followed by the other two. "If we're gonna search the area, let's be methodical about this and take it slow. We don't need anymore surprises like that last one," he said, looking at the slumped zombie near to them.

"Fine," replied David, folding his arms, "since you're the big strong leader, you decide who does what?" He sounded irritated with that last comment.

"You never made a big deal about my leadership skills beforehand," replied the R.P.D officer, giving a roll of his eyes.

David just scoffed and turned away.

"Me and Alyssa will check the other side of the upper floor," Kevin continued, looking towards the door with a few zombie corpses piled in front of it. "Dean, you go with David and scour the rest of the employee area."

"Great," replied Dean, shouldering his rifle and looking at David. "Oh wait, do you still have your radio Kevin?" he then asked.

Kevin reached behind him and pulled out an R.P.D issue hand-held radio from his utility belt. "Of course, but there's never anyone else on the other end to reply to me."

"Good thing I still have mine," replied Dean, showing it to Kevin. "Don't know if it'd still work when there's so many thick walls, but it'd be worth trying."

"OK then, let's meet back here in 10 minutes, just in case. But if you find anything before that, let us know over the radio, OK?"

"Fine by me," replied Dean.

"OK then, let's get going."

"Be careful guys," implored Alyssa, before she and Kevin turned away and walked towards the end of the passageway.

They had soon vanished through the door into the Eastern part of the station, leaving Dean and David alone. There was a long silence before David finally broke it.

"Let's go."

It didn't take them long to look through the rest of the area, the rooms splitting off from the main passage that twisted and turned like a snake with a broken back. The sound of gunshots in the distance told them that the other two had ran into more dangers, but were easily dealing with them. Dean and his partner didn't encounter any flesh-eating monsters though, so they had an easier run of things, so to speak.

They found what looked to be the power room, but it was locked by a numerical pad and they still needed the code to get inside, and also a set of stairs that lead further downstairs, but they decided not to go down just yet, cause it was much darker than where they currently were, and they could hear strange noises down there as well.

"So how's the plumbing business nowadays?" asked Dean, in an attempt to strike up a conversation with his normally silent partner as he lead the way into what looked like the woman's restrooms.

"Allright I suppose," replied the plumber, as he kicked open the stalls one at a time, his shotgun raised all the time.

"Right, so anyways, how'd you learn to use a shotgun?" asked Dean, checking over the dead body of a female slumped in the far corner.

"What do you mean? It's not exactly hard, just point and shoot," came the reply. With a forceful kick, another stall door banged open, the man's shotgun aimed for any zombies that could be lurking there waiting to attack.

"It's not quite that simple," replied Dean, giving the body one last nudge with his shoe. "Even if it was that simple, you're fully used to the recoil of one, so you've had to have used one before. Most people, when they use a shotgun for the first time, aren't used to the recoil and get knocked off their feet by the blast. Even I got caught off guard by it first time I used a shotgun." The plumber still didn't respond to his comments, so Dean pressed on. "So what were you? A gang member or a former cop or something?"

David only huffed in response, not explaining anything. Dean just didn't pursue the matter any further, this guy wasn't saying anything to him, either because he was a wanted criminal, hence his proficiency with firearms and that knife of his, or because it was too painful for him to bring something in the past up. With the search of that women's rest-room turning up nothing, they moved onto the men's restrooms.

They'd only just stepped inside when yet another moan sounded, very close to their current position, probably from within the room itself. David growled and raised his shotgun, but Dean quickly placed a hand on the gun to make the plumber lower it. Listening carefully, they heard the moan again, and Dean got down onto his hands and knees, peering underneath the cubicle walls. As he expected, he made out a pair of feet standing in the last cubicle, not moving at all. They were also standing in a pool of blood, as it happened.

"Thought so," he murmured with a smile, getting back up and making his way over to the last cubicle until he was stood in front of it. David just watched him from his position by the door as the cop pulled out his handgun and pressed it against the door, equal to what was about head height. He then pulled the trigger, resulting in a loud bang, the splintering of wood and the sound of something slumping to the ground with a wet slap. Shortly afterwards, the cop bought his leg up and booted the door hard, sending it crashing wide open. He still kept his handgun readied, in case he missed the fatal shot.

On the toilet seat was slumped yet another subway employee, the torn clothes sodden with blood and his scarred flesh indicating that he was no longer amongst the living when he was still standing a moment before. Portions of the man's arm had been eaten away, exposing the sinewy muscle and bone beneath, traces of teeth gouging upon the exposed radius bone. The man's cap was still perched atop his head, sheltering about half of his face from sight, but he could still make out the near-perfect hole blown into his forehead, fresh blood dribbling down the zombie's features.

"Damn," muttered David, who had now appeared by Dean's shoulder, "you're becoming a stone cold killer, dude."

That last comment bought something up from within Dean that he didn't like. He'd never liked hurting people, during his training he was always taught to try and disable his opponent with limb shots if possible, only going for the fatal shot if he had no other choice. Those couple of times he had actually been forced to shoot someone dead, he didn't feel comfortable afterwards. Yet during this outbreak, he had so far killed more zombies than he could count on the fingers and toes of half the R.P.D, and he didn't show any remorse for any of them. Even if they were flesh-eating monsters now, they were human once, just like him or David.

He ignored the plumber's last comment, noticing a piece of white paper in the zombie's top jacket pocket. Carefully, he pulled it out, noticing how cold the once-human's body felt. He pulled the paper out slowly, double-checking to make sure that the thing was dead for sure. Unfolding it slowly, he looked at a small sequence of numbers scrawled onto the paper, which looked like it had been hastily torn from a bigger piece of paper.

"Looks like we're in luck," commented Dean with a smile, showing the note to the plumber. "We should let the others know about this." He was soon stepping out into the corridor once again, holding the door open for his companion to follow. As the door swung shut behind them, Dean pulled out his radio and pressed the button to talk into the mouthpiece.

"Kevin, you there? We've managed to find that combination for the storage room, so if we meet up again and-"

Sudden gunfire cut his transmission short, before Kevin's panting voice filtered in through his ear. "Dean, sorry but we got bigger problems here!" There was more panting before the other R.P.D officer continued. "Those zombies aren't the only thing down here. There are some bugs down here! Really big bugs!"

_Well at least the radios still work down here…_

Dean then thought of the huge bug things that had nearly killed him the other day. "You mean huge things with sickle like claws?"

"No!" shouted Kevin back, nearly deafening his colleague.

"Giant spiders then?" ventured Dean. David looked a bit alarmed by Dean's reference to giant arachnids.

"No!" was the reply. "These look more like giant-"

The sound of clanking metal cut him off, closely followed by the sound of Alyssa crying out in surprise.

"Shit! There's another one!" she cried, closely followed by her weapon discharging a few times.

"Dean, my hands are a bit full right now! Just try and hold on-" shouted back Kevin, before the radio transmission suddenly cut out. Dean was gravely silent for a long time as he took in what his colleague had tried to tell him.

"What was it?" asked David with a measure of concern from next to him. Dean slowly tucked his radio away and looked at his companion.

"I think our luck's about to get worse."

"Than it already is?"

After that comment had left David's lips, a metal grate covering about 12 feet away from them suddenly fell off of its covering, and something heavy dropped to the floor atop the grate. Dean's torch exposed what looked like reflective carapace, like that seen on certain types of insects…

"What the hell?"

A split second later, the thing barrelled out of the dark with unimaginable speed, heading straight towards him. "Holy shit!" he cried out.

BOOM!

The thing was smacked out of mid-air following a close range shotgun blast. It landed on its back with a wet smack, and started flailing its legs about in a rather haphazard manner. Dean continued to stare, seemingly frozen in place after coming so close to having an unknown assailant tearing his throat out. The pumping of a shotgun from next to him snapped him back to reality, as he fired his MP5 into the thrashing form, and it finally lay still.

"You OK?" asked David from next to him. Dean just nodded in response, pointing his torch towards the dead form lying about 10 feet away from them.

"What the hell was that?!" he asked, rhetorically, as he took in the thing's details. It had six legs, along with a segmented body, much like a bug would, along with mandibles dripping with fresh blood. To Dean's mind it looked like a flea, albeit one that was the size of a large dog. Things just kept getting stranger and stranger in this city…

"A giant flea?" asked David as he walked up to the corpse and gave it a kick with the toe of his shoe. "Maybe that's what Kevin was telling us about before." Dean gave the dead bug another kick with his own foot. After the giant spiders, giant mutant bugs and the zoo inhabitants he had encountered so far in the city, it didn't seem like a massive stretch of the imagination to see giant fleas running about as well.

The sound of skittering and chirping entered their ears, and both men faced back down the passage from where they had originally entered the employee area. The sounds became closer and more frequent, and Dean felt his hands becoming clammy around the rifle. They came closer and closer still, until his torch picked up movement from around the corner ahead of them. A bit longer, and soon at least 3 bug-like creatures were working their way towards the two men, all of them slightly different in appearance or size. 2 of them were about the same size as the first one, one of them with a deep red colouration, but the last one was much large, nearly as big as Dean himself, with deep black, almost purple colourations.

But either way, it didn't make any difference. They were still a threat to him and David. He opened fire as the things drew closer.

The van was driving full pelt down the streets now, the recent death of Cal Turin all too present in the minds of everyone inside the vehicle. It was all too apparent on Simon and Ben's faces as well, that blank expression as they stared ahead. In the back, they could hear at least one of the civilian survivors breaking down in a flood of tears. Ben grimaced as he pulled another shard of glass from his fleshy cheek and tossed it out the windowless gap next to him. He looked in the wing mirror outside his door, noticing how small trails of blood were marking his filthy, sweaty face now. In some cases it looked as though he'd been crying blood.

"You just had to give them 10 minutes, didn't you?" snapped Simon suddenly, wrenching the wheel to by-pass a wrecked car in the middle of the street.

"How was I supposed to know he'd wander off and get himself killed?!" snapped Ben back, glancing at Simon then back at the road. "Look out!"

Simon wrenched the wheel again, just barely passing a lone zombie loitering on the street, before he started to go at Ben again.

"You could've kept and eye on him! What happened to that 'protect and serve' bullshit ywe're always going on about?!"

"I wasn't the only damn cop there!" retorted Ben. "Where the hell were you supposed to be anyways?"

"Don't you dare blame this on me you jumped-up-"

"What?" asked Ben, cutting him off. "I really hope you weren't going to use the fact I'm not in S.W.A.T against me, were you?" There was an uncomfortable silence as Simon looked back towards the road and slowed the van down. There was no point in speeding unless there was a very real threat.

"No," replied the driver meekly.

"Just because I'm not a S.W.A.T doesn't mean you're above me!" continued Ben. "This isn't the time to start throwing the blame around, we have to stick together and get through this, even if one of us got killed, allright?"

"Right," replied Simon, still looking ahead. "I'm sorry, I was caught up in the heat of the moment."

"Right then," said Ben, raising his voice for emphasis. "Just keep us going, I'll try and calm things down in the back." With that, he got up from his seat and moved into the rear compartment, where Max was busy trying to calm down Hannah, who was in hysterics by now. They were surrounded by Roger and the other civilian survivors, all with blank expressions on their faces.

"But why didn't we try to save him?" she asked through a flood of tears, to no-one in particular.

Max looked up at Ben with a heavy sigh. Ben could feel his colleague's sentiments exactly, as this was beginning to feel more and more like a pointless cause. But, they couldn't let the others know what they were feeling, lest everyone were to break down. Ben wasn't even sure if he knew the words to calm down this woman, but he couldn't just stand there and try nothing.

"There was nothing we could do," he said instead, as he stooped down to the same height as the crouched woman.

There was a scoff from over in the far corner, and Ben glanced to see Cliff, the gruff man in the leather jacket, sat there avoiding the cop's gaze. Ben looked back around to Hannah.

"Look, you gotta try and stay strong for everyone's sake, allright?" he tried.

"But you could have done something! You did nothing!" she replied, shrieking almost as she spoke.

"So who'll die next?" asked Cliff suddenly.

"No-one's dying next!" snapped Max, sounding impatient and pissed off.

"You don't know that for sure though, do you?" came the scarcastic reply.

"You wanna walk smart ass?" asked Max, standing up to his full height. "Those zombies would appreciate the favour!"

"You gonna make me?"

"SHUT THE HELL UP, BOTH OF YOU!"

Everyone immediately fell silent and stared at Ben, who looked just about ready to knock someone's block off with a single punch. Well, everyone except Hannah, who was still sobbing quietly in the corner.

"This isn't helping!" he continued. "We'll discuss this once we've reached another safe place, ok?"

"If there are any safe places left," muttered an unknown male voice from out of view. Ben stared at the group for a bit longer, before he stepped back into the driver's compartment and sat himself down.

"All sorted?" asked Simon. "You sounded pretty pissed off there."

"I wish I wasn't given the leadership here," Ben sighed, rubbing his forehead as he did so. "I feel as though I'm about to explode."

"But come on," reassured Simon, "you've done well so far."

"But someone died on my watch!" seethed Ben, still rubbing his face. "Roger was right."

"What's Roger been saying now?" asked Simon, swerving around another car wreck in the middle of the road.

"He said that when it comes to the crunch, I'll only care about saving my own life and no-one elses."

"Oh ignore him," replied Simon. "Self-preservation's always a major instinct, but until then, I'm sure you'll make the right choices Ben. You always have done."

"Thanks Simon, but words still won't make me feel much better," muttered Ben, staring out the side window at the rapidly passing streets.

"Hey, just focus on what's ahead of us," reassured the S.W.A.T officer, taking his eyes off of the road. "We all need you here."

Ben didn't reply, but after a few seconds he looked towards the main road, and he nearly jumped.

"WATCH OUT!" he cried.

There was something standing in the middle of the road. Whatever it was, it was huge, dressed in black and seemed to have a zombie-like pallor to its skin. Simon managed to look really freaked out before he finally wrenched the steering wheel, guiding the van around the mystery being. Ben didn't get a good look at the creature, since they passed it at nearly top speed. As they turned, Simon was stamping on the brakes as well, and soon the van was moving sideways, its tyres screaming as they tried to keep a grip on the road.

"Hold on everyone!" shouted Simon as Ben quickly pulled on his seat belt.

"Oh fuck!" cried Max from the back.

But the van couldn't keep its grip on the road for much longer. With a screech of tortured metal the vehicle began to keel over, right-side first, balancing on two solitary wheels for a few scant seconds. Ben held his breath, just begging for it all to end. He stared out of the open window, watching as the post box and the parked car he could see began to turn upside-down gradually.

Finally, the riot van crashed to the ground, with a chorus of panicked screams coming from the back of the van. Ben's head smacked off of something hard, and his vision went black.

**A/N: Phew. Another chapter, another life-threatening situation for both of our intrepid survivors. This chapter came quickly cause I'd already drafted it after I hit writer's block with my last chapter. In other news, as it was E3 recently, it means that Gamespot, IGN and all the other major game sites had the new trailer/gameplay footage movies up for Resident Evil 5. And it looks IMMENSE, so if you haven't seen them yet, then go and watch them now. Now, I implore you! **

**Anyhoo, see you in time for my next update I hope. **


	13. Chapter 13

eendChapter 13: Pest Control

**September 2****7****th****, 0545 hours**

BOOM!

With another shotgun blast courtesy of David, another flea was sent to its maker in a spray of blood and broken carapace armour. That armour made them a lot more robust than at first glance, and the small ones took at least 2 shotgun blasts to put down. Dean's MP5 had some problems in punching through their natural defences though, and he had to use a surprising amount of ammo to put one down. And to complicate matters, it was hard to get a bead on the monsters as they bounded from one side of the passage to the other in desperate attempts to avoid being shot at, and the fact they only had a single torch to illuminate the threat meant it was a bit hit-and-miss picking out targets in the thick gloom.

At least 2 fleas were lying bleeding on the cold concrete ground, but more of them had appeared from nowhere to make up for depleted numbers. Dean guessed they were using the ventilation system to get from place to place, so there'd be no safe place to hide from these monsters. They could only stand and fight there and then.

The huge black flea suddenly made a beeline for Dean, his torch beam picking out its reflective carapace, before the thing's head tackled into the cop's stomach, throwing him onto his back, as it lunged straight at him, its mandibles going for his throat. Luckily, he managed to get his SMG up in time, jamming it into the region below the creature's chin, and also to get his feet up and planted onto the gun, to try and force it back away from him, but still the creature has plenty of strength behind it, and soon a back-and-forth struggle had been initiated.

"Ugly fucker, aren't you?" growled Dean as he could make out the creature's beady eyes and razor-sharp mandibles at this extreme close distance.

"Dean!" cried out David, who was still stood upright and attempting to make a move to help his companion, but the sudden arrival of yet more fleas stopped him short. It was like they had suddenly emerged out of thin air to attack the two unlucky survivors.

Dean nearly gagged as hot breath washed over his face, but he managed to keep his hold onto the rifle, forcing the thing back further from his vulnerable neck region. Unless David found some space to give him a hand here, he was in big trouble, and being drained of his vital fluids by an overgrown flea didn't suit him well. The he had a thought.

_That home-made flame-thrower! Of course!_

Bracing himself against he floor, both feet planted into the throat region of the giant insect before him, dropping his MP5 and reaching for the can at his waist. The flea snapped at him again, but he moved his head back, its teeth barely missing his skin, the rank breath washing over his face. He felt around a bit more and soon felt his fingers wrap around the cool steel of the can, and he pulled it out, twisting it around so it was facing towards the monstrous insect's facial region.

_This had better work, _he thought grimly, turning his face away and screwing his eyes shut.

WHOOSH!

Dean felt the heat wash over him as he squeezed the can's trigger, closely followed by the shrieking cry of the insect as its face was roasted almost instantly. After a few seconds had passed, he released his grip on the trigger, and he instantly felt the force pushing against him vanish, the considerable bulk of the giant flea slumping to the ground. He opened his eyes to see a considerable amount of charred flesh where the creature's facial features should've been, and he sighed in belief, before he started to cough violently, inadvertently taking in a lungful of black smoke.

"You OK?" yelled David as he fired his shotgun, before grabbing Dean by the shoulder and yanking him to his feet.

"I'm fine!" shouted Dean, retrieving his MP5. "But damn, that little toy of yours was effective!"

"Just focus on these freaks!" David shouted back.

Dean's torch light illuminated an insectoid form clutching to the wall above him, just as another shotgun blast rang out and it was knocked from its perch, spraying even more blood about its prone form. It lay there for a bit, flailing its legs about in a pathetic manner, before it finally lay still, the blood pooling even further underneath its form. As Dean watched the dark liquid pool, in an almost enthralled manner, he realised that the danger had passed for now, and he dropped onto his rear, rubbing his face a few times. Hr looked up at his companion, who was busy reloading his shotgun.

"You allright?" he asked, watching as the light flickered over the young plumber's features, exposing the sheen of sweat on his face and the almost sunken appearance of his eyes, as if he hadn't slept in a while.

"Y-yeah," replied the plumber eventually, a hint of fear in his voice. Then again, after fighting off a squad of overgrown fleas, Dean wasn't surprised that the man didn't sound a bit more composed. Rapidly approaching footsteps on the concrete alerted both of them to something or someone approaching from ahead of them, and they whirled perked up instantly, weapons drawn.

Dean's torch illuminated the outline of Kevin Ryman standing about 12 feet away from them, Dean's S.P.A.S 12 shotgun raised in front of him, and Alyssa standing just behind him. The man muttered an apology as they all lowered their weapons, the new arrivals taking notice of the fresh corpses on the ground.

"See you ran into some of those damned bugs as well," said Kevin, sounding short of breath.

"Yeah," replied Dean, kicking the head of the large black flea a few times to make himself feel better. "I'm assuming that's what you were trying to warn us about over the radio?"

"Yeah," replied Kevin, looking down at the dead fleas. "Except the ones we fought weren't that big to begin with."

"What's with the varying sizes though?" asked Alyssa from behind Kevin. It was the first time she'd spoken since they had all reunited.

"Fleas can gorge themselves on many times their own body weight in blood," said David suddenly, getting everyone's attention at once. "So much so that they bloat to many times their original size."

Dean looked down at the large black flea again, guessing that it was maybe twice the size of the other dead fleas surrounding them. After what they'd all just been told, he didn't want to think about how much bigger these things were going to get in the near future. Best not to tempt fate, after all.

"Comforting thought," he said, commenting on David's little observation. "Anyways, I think we found the combination for the storage room." He pulled out the folded note and held it up for all of them to see.

"Good work," smiled Kevin, "but we didn't find much of value, just more things to waste our ammo on."

"If this keeps up we'll be dead within the hour," muttered Alyssa pessimistically. Dean shifted a bit where he stood, sighing deeply.

"Well let's get out of here soon as then," he interjected. "We still haven't been to the far end of the employee area, so let's check there now."

Kevin cracked another optimistic smile. "Yeah sure, After all, there's a better chance with all of us being together, right?"

Ben blinked his eyes a few time, his eyelids feeling as heavy as lead. Eventually, something snapped within him and he shot awake, finally realising what had happened.

They had crashed. Simon swerved to avoid the black thing standing in the middle of the road and as a result, he ended up flipping the van over instead. He was still alive, that much he knew, but what about the rest of them? He looked to his right, being met with a close-up view of tarmac, since the van had flipped onto his side. Luckily as he had his seat belt on, he'd been saved from banging his head. But he still felt a considerable pain from where the seatbelt covered his body. Ahead of him, the windscreen had been shattered, and through the broken glass he could see a lop-sided view of the world outside, but luckily the street was devoid of any potential threats.

He looked left, and saw Simon, still strapped into his driver's seat, but with his head and arms hanging limply down, and a decent amount of blood pouring from his temple.

_Oh no…_

"Simon!" he cried, trying to grab the man's arm. He succeeded after a few attempts and grabbed onto his collar, giving it a few shakes to try and raise the man. "Simon! Wake up!"

The S.W.A.T officer groaned slightly and shifted in his seat.

"Simon!" shouted Ben. Simon groaned louder this time and his eyes fluttered open, looking around tiredly. He blinked a couple of times then looked at Ben.

"We're…still alive?!"

"Yes, we're alive!" growled Ben. "Now come on, we have to get out of this damned tin can!" As he finished that last statement, he undid his seatbelt and ended up falling onto his side in a painful manner. "Ow…"

"Ben! Simon! You still alive?" shouted Roger from the back compartment. His voice sounded muffled due to the dividing wall between the two compartments.

"We're fine!" yelled back Simon. "What about the rest of you?"

"Oh, we're fine!" shouted Max in a sarcastic manner. "Apart from someone driving like a damned lunatic and nearly killing us!"

"Don't make me come back there and kick your ass!" shouted Simon, still struggling with his seatbelt. By then , Ben had already freed himself from his position and had squeezed out through where the windscreen originally as, and was now standing out in the open street, stretching his weary limbs out. A few seconds later, Simon undid his seatbelt and fell hard onto the opposite wall of the van.

"You OK?" asked Ben, looking about for any potential threats. But luckily, the street was empty. Unnervingly so…

"I'll be fine," groaned Simon, as he emerged from the vehicle much the same way as Ben just had. Then he turned back and dug his M4 out of the abandoned cab, closely followed by Ben's shotgun, which he passed on to him.

"Thanks," replied Ben, checking that it was still functioning properly.

"Hello? Little help!" cried a muffled voice from within the van.

Quickly, Ben had crossed to the rear area of the van and with a bit of effort, had yanked open the rear doors, allowing the remaining survivors to emerge into the daylight, looking bruised and a little shaken, but otherwise still in one piece.

"Everyone OK?" asked Ben.

"Yeah," sighed Roger. "We're all fine, aside from a few bruises, but nothing permanent."

"Yeah, but I got a good mind to sack the driver," murmured Cliff, a fresh medical gauze wrapped around his head, slightly stained with red in a couple of places.

"I'm sorry, but there was something in the road!" protested Simon.

As the two men began to exchange words, Ben looked back down the road they'd come from, and he could clearly see the dark skid marks from where they had swerved to avoid whatever it was he'd seen standing in the road. But whatever it was, it wasn't there now. Had they just imagined it then?

_That's it, we've all gone insane then._

"Hey!" shouted Roger from out of view, getting Ben's attention. "Whatever happened, we're stuck here now."

"We could try to flip the van over again?" suggested someone at the back of the assembled group.

"No use," replied Simon flatly, as Hannah worked at wrapping a medical gauze around his bleeding head. "It's way too bulky for all of us to do it by ourselves. Looks like we have to continue on foot."

A chorus of groans went up.

"I know it sucks," suggested Ben, stepping into the middle of the group. "But we don't have any other choice. It's best we keep moving rather than moping over what we've lost." A series of mumbled agreements went up from the assembled group.

"So where do we go then?" asked Cliff sullenly.

Roger glanced around and saw from a nearby street sign that they were currently on Marble Avenue, a road that ran parallel to the Marble River, one of the two rivers that flowed through the centre of Raccoon City. "Marble Avenue," he said, giving them all a rough idea of where they were.

"Right then," replied Ben. "That means we're about 3 and a half miles away from the city's southern outskirts. If we start walking, we could make it in a couple of hours."

"But most of the roads are blocked off or crawling with zombies," added Max from beside Roger. "It won't be easy as taking a straight route there."

"Maybe not," replied Ben. "But we have to do the best with what we've got. Now come on, let's get going."

"OK people," shouted Simon, "stay close to one another and don't wander off from each other, whatever you do. If anything happens, let us handle the fighting, OK?" He pulled back the bolt of his assault rifle to show he meant business, and everyone there nodded in agreement.

"Let's go," said Ben, as he turned to face the way they'd been travelling.

Suddenly, a piercing shriek filled the air.

Everyone tensed up and pulled in their formation, the four police officers on the outside, their weapons drawn.

"What the hell was that?!" asked Max, tensing up.

"I'd rather not know," replied Simon, to-the-point, and echoing everyone else's feelings, it had to be said.

"Oh God no!" shrieked Hannah, right in Ben's ear.

"Stay calm, people!" urged Ben, aiming his shotgun up at a fire escape on the building next to him, then towards an open window a few feet to the left of the fire escape, where the curtains were billowing freely in the gentle breeze.

The shriek came again, louder this time, and Simon bit his lip, aiming towards a shadowy corner to the right of his position. He could feel bullets of sweat pouring down his face, as he willed the mystery creature to show itself.

Max saw something shoot out of a window at least 20 feet above them, so fast it was moving as a blur, plunging head-first for them. Quickly as he could muster, he aimed upwards and fired.

BOOM!

Green fluid sprayed from the unknown object, sending everyone else ducking for cover as it rained down around them. Ben nearly found himself deaf, as the shotgun had discharged right next to his left ear as well. As he turned his head away in reflex, he heard something hit the ground hard, with a snap of bones. He looked up and around, and saw something righting itself to its feet, about 12 feet away from him, on the tarmac.

His finger curled around the trigger, but he found himself hesitating. He couldn't comprehend what he was seeing in front of him.

It resembled some sort of insect, albeit an insect that seemed to have come straight out of hell. It was bulky, at least as big as Simon was, maybe a little bigger, with six legs armed with sickle-shaped claws that were covered in dried blood. Its head possessed beady eyes, that seemed to be eyeing Ben up as though he were to be its next meal. Below its head, an appendage that reminded him of a mosquito's mouth-piece hung down, dripping small amounts of drool, showing that the being was ravenous, which only made the trouble they were in worse.

"Oh Jesus, what the fuck is that meant to be?!" cried a panicked voice from behind Ben.

_My sentiments exactly, _thought Ben.

Simon opened fire with his M4 at the wounded insect monster, scoring a few more hits before it launched itself into the air, coming down towards Ben with claws bared. He finally managed to snap out of his trance and raised his shotgun up high, pulling the trigger. The shot blew out a significant portion of the monster's stomach, and it fell back, shrieking wildly as it hit the ground hard. It thrashed about a few times and then finally lay still.

"Holy shit!" cried Max from somewhere behind Ben. "What the hell was that supposed to be?!"

"I don't know," replied Roger, in a serenely calm manner, "but I think we better leave before any more of them turn up."

"Amen to that brother," added Simon.

"Let's just get out of here people," continued Ben, his shotgun fixed on the still form of the giant bug before him. He took a slight step backwards.

The monster's leg twitched slightly and Ben held his breath.

"-and get going, now," he finished, taking another two steps backwards. Silence descended, as everyone held their breath as they backed away slowly from the monster's corpse.

Another deadly shriek rang through the air.

"Shit!"

THUMP!

Ben spun around to see another giant insect perched atop an overturned sedan car, parked only a few feet away from him. It shrieked at him again, right in his face this time, spittle flicking into his face. He didn't hesitate again as he pulled the trigger and its head exploded, spraying him with green blood. Then everything else went to hell.

They seemed to come crawling out of the woodwork from every angle possible. He saw one land atop of the wrecked riot van, along with a second that seemed to launch itself from an apartment building rooftop and came flying down towards the group. While all this was going on, two more came scuttling out of the windows on the apartment block facing the group. Gunfire erupted around Ben as he added his own shotgun blasts to the mix, aiming for the monster that was coming down from the sky. He fired twice, just as Max added his MP5 to the salvo. It shrieked, then spiralled down to earth, landing with a sickening crack inches away from the civilian survivors.

Hannah screamed and shyed away, and then finally breaking off from the main group. She was desperate to escape from danger, even if it meant leaving relative safety to do so.

"Hannah, wait!" cried Roger, turning to try and help her, but it was too late.

Another of those insect monsters appeared out of thin air, launching at the young woman, slamming into her and pinning her down on the tarmac with its immense weight. Her weapon clattered away from her as it started to punch its clawed limbs into her frail, tiny body. She screamed in agony as the claws went straight through her Kevlar vest and blood spurted from her with each blow: so much blood it seemed impossible for that much to be contained in the human body, thought Ben grimly. Her screaming finally gave though, to a morbid gurgling noise, as the monster finally got bored of stabbing her and instead jabbed its feeding tube into her neck. An equally morbid slurping sound was heard, before Simon forced his way past Ben and opened fire on the beast with his M4. Uttering a war cry, he unloaded the rest of his current M4 magazine into the back of the monster, until it finally slumped down dead atop its final victim.

"Fuck! No!" shouted Cliff, noticing the death of the young woman. He started to fire more recklessly at the insectoid forms around them, missing most of his shots as a result of his fury.

"Aah!" cried Max, as a scythed claw flicked out and slashed him across the left upper arm. He fell back, but he still managed to fire his MP5 into the face of the monster responsible, killing it instantly. "Damn it," he then muttered, as he sat on the ground clutching his wound.

"Max!" cried Ben, slinging the shotgun around his neck and stooping down to help his colleague up.

"I'm fine!" he cried. "It's just a flesh wound!" Ben bit his lip as he still offered Max a hand to his feet, before turning and firing upon another bug monster that came scuttling down the brickwork of the building near to them. He hit it twice in the spine and it let go, hitting the ground with a sick thud.

The sound of gunfire came at Ben from every direction, along with the panicked cries of the civilians still with them, making it nigh-on impossible for him to know what was going on, but he had to do the best he could.

"SIMON!" he roared over the cacophony of noise, hoping that the man heard him. "GET THEM MOVING!"

"ROGER!" shouted back the S.W.A.T officer, over the cracking of his assault rifle.

The embattled group edged down the street, away from the wrecked riot van, and away from the monstrous bug creatures that were attacking them in droves.

"8…6…2…9!"

Kevin punched in the number code as Dean read it out loud, and the lock clicked open with ease.

"Yes!" exclaimed Kevin, before readying his shotgun before him.

"Is that necessary?" asked Alyssa from behind the assembled group. Kevin gave her a blank look.

"Just cause it's locked doesn't mean that nothing else was locked inside…and you know those fleas use the vents to get around, so better safe than sorry." She just folded her arms and said nothing in response. Satisfied that there were no more objections, Kevin pushed the door open carefully with the barrel of his shotgun, nosing it inside and around, to check for threats.

"All clear," he cried after a few seconds, and everyone joined him inside the small, relatively cramped room, its space taken up by a row of lockers along the far wall, and a set of shelves on the opposite side of the room. There wasn't really much space at all to move about in, but luckily there wasn't a ventilation duct on the wall so there was no danger of any unexpected visitors dropping in from above.

David began to rifle through some cardboard boxes on the shelves, turning up a large roll of duct tape and a couple of portable torches. As he did, he discarded an empty tape roll, replacing it with the fresh roll he'd just collected.

"These should help," he muttered, handing a torch to Alyssa, who checked that it was working, as David did the same with the one he had already taken. Meanwhile, Dean searched through the lockers, finding all of them to be completely empty or filled with useless junk that wouldn't help them.

"So what about these supplies they were talking about?" he asked to no-one in particular, as he finished searching the last locker and gave it a good kick of frustration. He looked about to see Kevin stood by the far locker, looking as though he were trying to pull it out from where it was fixed to the wall.

"Hey, someone give me a hand with this, would they?" Kevin grunted, trying to give it another good pull. His curiosity piqued, Dean walked over and took a hold of the locker near to where Kevin was holding it. "Now, give it a good pull!" advised Kevin.

The two men pulled, and were rewarded with a concrete scraping sound as the locker pulled away from its wall mounting with too much ease. Dean glanced down to notice the scrapes on the concrete floor: possibly from when people had been moving the locker time and time again beforehand…

"Hm, clever," noted Dean, smiling at Kevin, who just grinned in response as they pulled again, fully pulling the locker away from the wall, and exposing a decent-sized hole in the wall behind it. As the two cops moved the locker down to the other end of the room, David flicked on his torch and shone it inside the exposed hole.

"I'll be damned," the plumber muttered, as the others gathered around him and stuck their heads over his shoulder to see what he could see.

"Wow," said Dean simply.

The hollow was full to the brim with everything that could be considered extremely helpful in situations such as this: guns, ammo and medical supplies. A few shotguns, and a couple of sub-machine guns were propped up within, along with a couple of 9mm handguns as well, along with extra boxes of ammunition and magazines for all of the weapons present. And finally, there were several cans of first-aid spray, along with rolls of gauze bandages and a few test tubes filled with a strange green powder, which Dean recognised as mixed herb dust, used to treat fresh wounds by applying it directly to the afflicted area, and a more potent version of the individual green healing herbs that grew in the Raccoon area.

"Holy shit!" exclaimed Kevin. "Were these guys preparing for a war or something?"

"Well whatever it was, it's going to benefit us now," beamed Dean.

"But there's way too much here for all of to take along," mentioned Alyssa. "It'd just slow us all down."

Everyone fell silent as they contemplated this observation. She was right: there was too much there for all of them to take along at once.

"We'll just take what we need then," added Kevin. "Seems fair, right?" The others nodded in response. "Well in that case," continued Kevin, reaching into the hollow, "who wants the SMG then?"

It took them about 5 minutes to come to a decision, but by then they had distributed ammo and weapons around one another. Dean, Kevin and Alyssa all got 3 handgun magazines each, while Kevin and David both took around 18 shotgun shells each, as both of them had shotguns already, while Dean took only 12 for himself, since he would be getting his S.P.A.S 12 back shortly. Kevin then took ownership of a shiny new M870 shotgun, passing Dean's S.P.A.S 12 back to its previous owner.

"Thanks," said Dean, slinging it over his shoulder since he was intending to hold onto his MP5 for the time being.

"Anytime buddy," smiled Kevin back, as David helped tape a new flashlight to the barrel of the weapon, before he loaded up to maximum capacity.

Alyssa took an MP5 SMG that was hidden within the hollow, along with 4 spare magazines for it, while Dean took only 2 for his own weapon. As she awkwardly slung the weapon over her shoulder and clicked the flashlight on, Dean noticed the difficultly she seemed to be having and took a step towards her.

"You need a hand with that?"

"No," she snapped, "I'm sure I'll figure it out sooner or later," she said, clicking the attached flashlight into life. A few seconds afterwards, she found the bolt at the side of the weapon and pulled it back into the ready position.

And that left the medical supplies. They decided to take a couple of cans of first-aid spray with them, along with a few rolls of gauze bandages and powdered herbs, while leaving the rest of the supplies, in case anyone else was to come along and find the supply stash. It wouldn't be very nice if they were selfish and greedy, and besides there was too much for all of them to take at once. With the matter of supplies sorted out, they all stepped back outside into the corridor to discuss their next move.

"So now what?" asked David.

"The power room should be downstairs," explained Dean, "but it looks pretty dark down there."

"Great," mumbled Alyssa, looking at the dead fleas lying not too far away from them.

"Well we don't have a choice," continued Kevin, "so we either go down there or stay here and get stranded."

Annoyed grumbling was heard.

"Come on people," Kevin then said, in a cheery manner. "Just stick close to one another, and keep an eye on the vents as well!" As he finished talking, he turned down towards the stairs leading into the basement area, his shotgun raised. Close behind him came David and Alyssa, while Dean bought up the rear, his SMG scanning the places the others might have missed on their initial pass by.

They descended the stairs carefully; one step at a time in case there would be a nasty surprise waiting for them down below. The stairs went down and turned a corner, then did so again after a few more feet, winding down, further below the city. Dean noticed an open vent cover a few inches above his head and nosed his weapon inside it, checking for any potential threats. The initial vent area he could see was completely bare, but where it turned around a corner, he could see blood smears on the metal. He gulped slightly before hurrying after the others.

Soon they came down to a long corridor, which disappeared straight ahead of them into the inky blackness, and to their immediate left was another set of stairs, leading down into more darkness, which seemed more foreboding than the darkness they had seen so far, if that were possible somehow.

"Let's just scout out this floor first, ok?" Dean suggested, noticing how the others were looking fearfully at the new set of stairs they could see. There was a shifting of bodies as they began to move on again, just as Alyssa felt something run across her foot.

She screamed, causing the others to nearly hit the ceiling and aim their weapons about, searching for the source of their companion's distress.

"What is it?!" asked Dean, looking about in a haphazard manner.

"That," said David simply, pointing to the ground ahead of them.

A single rat, huge and bloated, sat in the middle of the corridor about 12 feet ahead of them, perched up on its hind legs and sniffing at the air. They all stared at it for a while, somewhat dumbfounded to see a solitary rat down here instead of some twisted monster that wanted to bite their faces off.

"Don't worry Alyssa," smirked Kevin, "I'll save you from the big scary rat!" She gave him two words in response, and the second word was 'off'. Dean couldn't help but smirk to himself as he watched the rat turn tail and scuttle away from them down the corridor. It helped him temporarily forget the situation they were in, and to lift his spirit a little.

Rat drama over, they moved on, but soon came to a halt when they saw that the corridor came to an end just ahead of them. But it was the huge bloodstains up the wall that caught their attention primarily.

"That doesn't bode well," observed David, in a somewhat too-dry delivery.

"Shush," hissed Kevin, readying his weapon. He shone his flashlight over the stains, seeing that some of them even reached the ceiling several feet above their heads. Something incredibly violent was responsible for this, he theorised.

"Look!" hissed Dean, appearing next to Kevin and pointing towards the end of the corridor. Kevin followed his friend's finger and saw what looked like the tip of someone's shoe sticking out from within a doorway. Of course, it could be a human or a zombie foot so they had to take care at any rate.

"I see," he nodded. "Come on, let's go check it out," he then added, giving his friend a look. Dean just nodded in response.

"You two, stay here and be careful," Kevin said to the other two standing behind them at the moment.

"Oh yeah, leave us out of the fun," joked David, turning away, even as the two R.P.D cops approached the stained corridor in crouch-walk postures, their weapons readied to act in an instant if needed. After a few seconds, they were just inches away from the doorway, and the foot still hadn't moved at all. Dean circled about to see the body in full view, and saw that it was dressed in the dark blue of the subway workers' uniforms, but otherwise he couldn't tell what they looked like: their face had been savagely torn into and an obscene amount of blood obscured their other features.

Carefully, he nudged the corpse's foot with his shoe.

It didn't flinch, so he nudged it again, a bit harder this time.

Still nothing.

"He's safe," he finally said, looking at Kevin, who nodded in response before stepping into the room itself. "Hey, wait up!" hissed Dean as he carefully followed after them, nearly bumping into Kevin's back as he did so.

Inside, half of the room seemed to be taken up by power transformers, so perhaps this was the power room they'd been looking for, so that was one thing sorted out, but it looked as though that feeling of achievement was about to be quashed very quickly.

"Damn," muttered Kevin, just standing there in the middle of the room.

"What is it?" asked Dean, stepping up beside his partner.

"See for yourself," replied Kevin, stepping to the side to examine something that was outside Dean's field of vision.

Bodies littered the floor of the power room, some of them caked in blood and grime, but most of them looked pretty clean by other standards. Most of them were dressed in civilian clothing, but at least three of them were dressed in the garb of the transit workers, and two of them had the rotten skin of zombie kind, dead with bullet holes in their heads and torsos. They were all definitely dead though, even as Kevin went around checking for pulses and kicking at still feet. Most of their faces were set in familiar looks of sheer terror, mouths and eyes wide open, forever set in those horrific grimaces.

"Jesus," muttered Dean.

"Looks like they taking shelter in here," noted Kevin, pointing to several discarded candy bar wrappers lying on the ground near to where he was currently stood. "But something else got to them."

"Then maybe we shouldn't be hanging around here either then?" suggested Dean.

"Amen to that," replied Kevin, turning away. "But we still need to get the power back on."

"Fine by me, just as long as we hurry-"

_Splat._

Something wet landed on Dean's shoulder and he froze. A second later another wet drop landed on the same spot, and he slowly glanced to the side to see a small but fresh blood patch on the shoulder of his denim jacket.

_Splat._

A third, moderately-sized blood drop landed in the same place, falling from the ceiling above him. He slowly turned to face forward, ignoring his first instinct to look up and see what was the source of the blood drops, but he knew that if he did he'd be getting a nasty shock that he wouldn't be forgetting any time soon. Instead, he breathed in slowly, reaching for the safety on his SMG and flicking it off carefully. He then moved it in front of him and held it there for a few seconds, holding his breath.

_Splat._

A fourth drop hit his shoulder, but he didn't flinch or react at all. When he was sure that he was well-prepared, he wrenched the gun up to aim skywards and depressed the trigger at the same time.

RATATATATATATAT!

Muzzle flash obscured everything, but Dean heard bullets smacking into both solid steel and soft flesh, along with the squeal of something that was obviously in pain. He fell back as hot blood sprayed on his face, some of it landing on his tongue. He tripped over something soft and landed hard on his rear, but he still managed to unload the remainder of his clip into the dark space in the ceiling, until all he heard was dry clicks from the gun's slide.

As the weapon continued to click, the ventilated corpse of a giant flea fell down from the ceiling and landed with a wet smack on the ground, a few inches away from his feet. Dean just stared down at it, even as he heard footsteps rapidly approaching.

"You OK?!" asked Kevin, offering Dean a hand to his feet.

"Y-yeah," replied Dean, visibly shaken. "Just got a little too close for comfort that's all." He then looked behind him, to see he'd tripped over one of the dead bodies. He swallowed the spittle that was still in his mouth, and then looked up, just as footsteps were heard and David and Alyssa appeared in the doorway.

"What's happening?" she asked, just before she noticed the numerous dead bodies stacked inside the room. "Oh…"

"You two OK?" asked David, seemingly uninterested in the numerous corpses in the room, perhaps because he'd become desensitised toward it all by now. Which seemed fair enough.

"We're fine," replied Kevin. "Just got caught off guard there, didn't ya?" he then asked, in a

"Y-yeah," nodded Dean in response, finally wiping a hand over his bloody face to try and clean himself up. "But come on, the power supply's just over there on that generator."

Deep within the subway tunnels, it was silent, but gradually a humming sound began to purvey into the dank silence, and soon enough all of the overhead lights came on, row by row, sending unmentionable things scuttling for the cover of darkness as the light chased them away. At the same time, the ceiling lights in the staff area and on the upper platform areas began to burst into life, exposing the grisly remnants of the monsters dispatched a bit earlier by the current human occupants of the subway system.

On the tracks, the lights inside the subway cars themselves began to light up as though it were Christmas come early, but for some certain people, it may as well be Christmas, because it held a very valuable thing for them: possible salvation from this living hell they were currently caught up in.

Deep in the darkest depths of the tunnels though, something else stirred, angry at being disturbed from its slumber.

"Well that's that done with," announced Kevin as they listened to the humming of the newly activated power generator. "Come on, let's get back to that train and get the hell outta here."

"That's the best thing I've heard for a long time," added David.

They all made their way back to the abandoned subway train on the lower southern platform, picking their way past the monsters they had dispatched shortly beforehand and they were soon at the platform within a few minutes. The lights within the carriages, and within the driver's compartment, on the control panel, were all lit now, making things a lot easier for them now.

"Oh thank the Lord," murmured Alyssa as they all squeezed themselves through the doorway into the driver's cabin, with Kevin pouring over all of the various buttons and levers before him. He seemed to have be having trouble in figuring out what to do next.

"If only Jim were here," he sighed.

"Jim?" asked Dean from behind.

"He was one of the other guys with us at J's Bar," explained David. "He was a whiny fucker if there ever was one, but he was a subway driver as it happened, so if he were here, this'd get done a lot faster."

"Well, he isn't here," seethed Kevin from the front compartment, "so we have to make do."

"You know," suggested Dean, "we have to disconnect the rear car before the train's able to go anywhere."

"I know, I know," replied Kevin, his finger hovering over a button that showed a graphic of what looked like two train carriages connecting together. Wondering to himself, he pushed the button, and was rewarded with a loud clanking sound from the rear of the train, causing all of them to look behind them. Dean disappeared outside for a minute to check the carriage couplings.

"That did it, the carriages are separated," he shouted back after several seconds.

Kevin smiled to himself a little. "OK then people, let's get going."

"Hold up!" hissed Dean, appearing in the open doorway leading out onto the platform. He had his SMG readied and he was holding his hand up, palm open. "You hear that?"

"Hear what?" asked Alyssa, sceptically.

"That!" hissed Dean back, as everyone else joined him out on the platform. They all perked their hearing up, and then they could hear it. Like something moving along the tracks at very high speed. Steel screeching on steel.

"What the?" asked Kevin, just as they could see some faint lights appearing in the distant darkness, coming closer and closer with each passing second.

"What is that?" Kevin asked.

"I think that's another train…" replied Dean, his face not showing any emotion. "So when we switched the power on, it started up again."

"So who's driving it then?" asked Alyssa from next to him.

The lights were becoming brighter and brighter now, and the sound of screeching steel was becoming much more pronounced.

"I don't think anyone's driving it," replied David bluntly.

"Aww shit," muttered Kevin.

A second later, a subway train comprised of three cars came screaming into the subway station, sparks flying from its white-hot wheels, all of the lights inside on, but no sign of any driver or passengers for that matter. Guided by nothing but pure momentum, it slammed head-first into the rubble blocking the tunnel ahead of it.

BOOM!

There was a massive explosion and a huge red-hot fireball as the engine car was lifted skywards upon impact and erupted into a fireball, the shockwave knocking all of the present survivors onto their backs. Dean felt a heat wave wash over his face as he lay on his back, writhing in pain from the impact upon the cold concrete of the platform surface. Once that had subsided, he looked up, watching as flames consumed nearly half of the overall tunnel area now, some of them reaching up to the ceiling far above their heads. The other train carriages had stacked themselves up behind the flames, blocking off half of the tunnel, but still giving the carriages on their side of the tunnel a clear route to some kind of freedom.

"Aww, fuck this man!" whined Kevin as he sat himself up, watching the flames as though enchanted by them. "We don't need this crap right now!" As he finished that sentence, there was a whoosh sound from somewhere above them, and the overhead sprinklers burst into life, spraying water over the entire space of the tunnel, including the survivors themselves. They just sat there as they were drenched, seemingly pondering the ridiculousness of it all.

Dean could feel a big smirk creeping across his face as he stood himself up shakily. But then that smirk disappeared, as he realised that the water was beginning to thin out, then finally cease.

"Hey, what's happening?" asked Kevin as he stood up, looking around. The water issuing from the sprinklers had been reduced to slight drips now, leaving the fire to rage out of control.

"There must be something wrong with the sprinkler system," observed David. "Like a problem with the water supply or something."

"So that means…?" asked Alyssa impatiently.

"It means that the sprinklers won't work again until we fix the water supply, which is probably somewhere in the basement area."

"Great, I didn't plan on going back there anytime soon," muttered Kevin.

"Well we have to," said Dean, appearing behind Kevin, holding what looked like the driver's manual for the train next to them. "It says here if there's a fire in one of the tunnels then the trains shut down until it's been extinguished. We have to put the fire out if we wanna drive this train out of here."

"Perfect," replied Kevin, rolling his eyes.

Suddenly, something shrieked from somewhere within the darkness. They all jumped in fright and turned towards the direction of the noise, readying their weapons in the process, with Dean dropping the driver's manual in the process. They waited for a few seconds, before the shrieking sound came again, sounding a bit closer this time.

The shriek sounded yet again, and Kevin spun round in the opposite direction they were all facing.

BOOM!

His shotgun fired at a dark shape that moved out of a dark corner, and blood sprayed into the air, along with yet another shriek, this one sounding in pain. A short while later, yet another flea emerged from the darkness, this one even larger than the last one and with a bright red colouration to its skin.

"Oh crap!" blurted Dean as he fumbled to raise his SMG. He fired into its bulk, stitching a bloody line from its belly up into the middle of its torso, but it barely slowed down as it came closer to them. Alyssa fared somewhat better, raising her own SMG and firing a few bursts into its face. Part of its skull exploded, and it finally slumped down to the ground, acres of blood spreading below it across the top of the platform.

"Nice shot," breathed Dean, a slight smile on his face.

"Thanks," she replied, not returning the smile.

THUMP!

They all span and back-pedalled as another bloated flea slammed down behind Dean's position, taking a swipe at them. Dean bought his arm up instinctively to deflect the blow, and found himself knocked on his behind as a result. But as the monster shrieked in victory as it towered over him, dual shotgun blasts from Kevin and David exploded the top half of the monster's body and it fell back from view. A large amount of blood sprayed back onto Dean's face, drenching him quite a bit. As he was busy spitting out what had landed in his mouth, he felt a strong arm drag him to his feet.

"You OK buddy?" asked Kevin in a concerned manner, as Dean wiped the claret off of his face.

"Oh yeah, just fine," he replied sarcastically. Then he looked at the two dead fleas on either side of them, as David stood off to the side, passively reloading his sawn-off Remington shotgun.

"We really need to get the hell out of here," the plumber finally said. "These freaks seem to be coming out in force, and that fire needs dealing with."

"He's right," added Kevin, looking around. "OK then, me and David will go find the sprinkler system and fix that up."

"Hey, what about us?" protested Alyssa from where she was stood next to Dean.

"You two should stay here and make sure nothing happens to the train."

"Well what do you think's going to happen to it? Really?" the reporter asked again, looking a little flustered. "Someone else might come along and steal it?"

"You never know," retorted Kevin. "In a situation like this you'd be surprised how people can be selfish and desperate. You remember what happened with the bus?" Alyssa went pale at that mention.

"What happened at the bus?" questioned Dean.

"Simple," replied David. "Some other survivors had managed to get a travel coach they were going to use to get out the city, but they wouldn't let us on. Threatened to shoot us as well if we tried to get on too."

"Damn," murmured Dean.

"Wouldn't be sad if they're all dead now."

"Don't talk that way!" snapped Kevin.

"What?" retorted David, turning on Kevin. "You mean that you didn't feel just a little pissed off at the fact they were going to leave us to die?"

"Guys, not now," Alyssa said, turning and walking away into the subway carriage.

"Right then, of course," replied Kevin, biting his lip. "Come on David, let's get this over and done with." With that, both of them turned and walked away, before Kevin shouted something over his shoulder.

"Sit tight: we won't be long." And then they disappeared up the ramp to the upper level.

"Allright then," murmured Dean, sighing and looking at one of the dead fleas next to him. He then kicked it in the head to make sure that it would stay dead.

5 minutes passed, and Kevin and David still hadn't returned. Dean leaned up against one of the platform pillars outside the train, watching the large fire raging without anything to try and prevent its growth. He could still feel the warmth against his skin from across the tunnel area, and he was thankful for that, just as long as it didn't threaten to come over their side of the tunnel and destroy their ride out of there.

Alyssa was sat inside the carriage, scribbling away on a small notepad she had produced from one of her jacket pockets a short while before.

"Yeah so, I'll just stay guard all by myself, right?" he asked sarcastically.

"Fine by me," she replied, not even looking up.

Dean rolled his eyes in annoyance. "So if a horde of fleas or zombies come along, do you expect me to fight them all off by myself?"

"Oh stop whinging; of course I'd help you then."

"If you say so," replied Dean, getting off his leaning post and walking over to see what she was up to. "What's that you're doing?" he asked.

"I'm writing down everything about this shit fest that I've witnessed so far," she replied, still writing down on her pad. "any of it might be useful once we get out of here."

"Going to write a major story are we?" asked Dean, sitting himself down opposite her. "Seems like you could write an entire tome on this sorry mess."

"Probably," she sighed, sitting upright and looking at her pad for a bit longer. "Wanna take a look?" she asked, handing him the pad.

"Sure," he replied, curious to find out about what else could be out there waiting for them.

She'd written on about 6 or 7 pages, and he was finding himself rather surprised and disturbed in equal measures as he read Alyssa's scrawled notes, informing him on familiar creatures such as zombies and zombie dogs, along with things that he hadn't had the displeasure of encountering yet, such as giant mutant bugs, skinless monsters with lance-like tongues, all accompanied with crude sketches of each creature in turn and Alyssa's personal thoughts on each one.

But it was the last page, one which had a heading that simply read 'The Virus?' underlined in thick pencil strokes. It consisted of musings on how it was spread, and most importantly, where it came from, or who created it.

"This virus," he said aloud, getting her attention, "you say here it spreads like wildfire?"

"Well pretty much the entire population turned into zombies within a day or even less," she explained.

"So what if got outside of the city?"

There was a deathly silence.

"Then…who knows," she finally said, sounding very weak and drained. "It could destroy the entire U.S.A…or the entire world."

Dean swallowed hard. He'd never thought of it like that before. He'd been looking to save just himself and anyone else he could, but he'd ignored the bigger picture. He'd seen the effects this virus could wreck on its victims, and if it managed to get outside of Raccoon City and infect other population centres, the world would probably be fucked.

"But the military's quarantined the city, right?" he replied. "So that keeps it at bay, for the time being at least."

"And we don't know where it came from either," she continued. "It was just there all of a sudden."

"Personally, I think Umbrella has something to do with this."

Her gaze snapped towards him. "What do you know about Umbrella?!"

"Well," he continued, somewhat intimidated by the way she stared straight through him like that. "To be honest, I ran into some people from this para-military group who worked for Umbrella…cleared their messes up, so to speak. They said Umbrella were responsible for this whole mess." Alyssa just stared at him some more, absorbing this new information.

"I always knew Umbrella was up to no good," she seethed, crossing her arms in front of her. "They've been under investigation by some people for years."

"They have?" She nodded in response.

"I mean, years ago, James Marcus, one of Umbrella's original founders, and head of its Management Training Facility, just vanished into thin air, presumed dead, since he was near the end of his life. Then there were our own reporters."

"Your own reporters?"

"Quite a few of them tried to publish stories on Umbrella, on their 'clandestine' operations, and then they turn up at work beaten to a bloody mess and retract their stories, or just vanish into thin air. Some of them did turn up eventually though…"

"Capped?" asked Dean with a raised eyebrow.

She nodded. "One of my colleagues, Kurt, he was a great writer, then just last week he disappeared. Convinced that Umbrella was operating out of some old hospital in the Arklay Forest. And then there were the S.T.A.R.S members…"

"The S.T.A.R.S!" half-cried Dean. "Of course. Somehow I knew they weren't bull-shitting at all."

"You didn't?" she asked.

"No…I could see it in their eyes," he explained, "like something inside them had died." He turned his head slightly and looked out of the carriage window, his face blank. "Maybe something did…I mean, 7 of their friends had died, all on the same mission."

He began to reminisce, back to last month, back when things were somewhat normal.

**August 19****th**** 1106 hours**

He was stood outside of the chief's office, one ear pressed against the wood, listening intently to the conversation happening on the other side. He'd only come along to deliver some files to the Chief, but he couldn't help but overhear the heated argument going on within.

"For the last time Redfield, you need to learn to let this go," said the Chief's voice calmly. "It's been a few weeks already."

"Let it go? You must be naïve if you think this is just going to go away Chief!" snapped the other voice in the room, one belonging to a younger male. "I have solid proof right here that shows our Captain was on the take from Umbrella! Or are you just blind as well as stupid?"

"All I see is something that could have just as easily been forged by someone with too much spare time on their hands."

"Oh don't give me that bull-shit excuse! You seem to be having little trouble brushing this away Chief. Are you sure you're not on the take as well?"

"You're treading on very thin ice Redfield!" shouted the Chief back, his voice rising.

"It all makes perfect sense Chief! They're paying you to cover up for them! No wonder you can afford all those tacky 'works of art' you're so damned fond of!"

"That's it!" roared the chief, nearly shaking the building's foundations. "You're suspended, indefinitely. You and the rest of the S.T.A.R.S! Maybe that should teach you all not to meddle in things you can't seriously comprehend!"

"Do what the hell you like Chief. If you won't listen, then I'll find someone else who will!" Footsteps soon began pounding towards the door, and Dean quickly stepped back against the wall behind him.

The door narrowly missed him as a young man in his mid 20's stormed out and away down the corridor, leaving the door swinging open. Dean carefully picked his way around the door and into the Chief's office, a rather cosy room decorated with numerous stuffed animals, one of the Chief's personal hobbies, and other expensive items of furniture.

"What do you want, Travers?!" scowled the Chief, stood behind his desk with his hands palms down, dressed in his official police uniform, his face red, sweaty and angry. He'd been going to quite a few press conferences lately, due to the recent gruesome murders occurring within the city, and it hadn't done much for his mood, it seemed.

"Er, I got those finance reports you asked for?" said Dean, holding up the file he'd been holding for the last 10 minutes. The Chief stared at him as though he'd just admitted to copulating with his wife, before his expression clamed.

"Oh, of course, just leave them on my desk and see yourself out please," he replied, picking up a pen and looking at some other file on his table. Dean carefully dumped the file onto a clear section of the huge oak desk, before he carefully exited the room, closing the door behind him.

A couple of minutes later, he sat down at his desk, rubbing his eyes and sighing as he did so.

"Chief in a bad mood again?" asked Ben, sat across from him, currently eating an apple.

"He was with Chris, again," replied Dean. "Seems like they're really in deep shit now though."

"Why's that?"

"He suspended them all…indefinitely."

"Seriously?!" asked Ben, almost flabbergasted.

"Shh!" hissed Dean. "Keep your voice down!"

"Why bother?" asked Ben causally. "Everyone will know about it soon enough." Dean just shook his head at his partner's antics.

A sudden commotion caught his attention, and he glanced up to see a throng of officers gathering around the doorway leading into the east hallway, all of them shouting and pushing one another. Suddenly, there was a thwack of a fist hitting a cheekbone, and one of the officers, who Dean recognised as Hugo Elran, from the Boys Crime Department, falling on his ass, his hand going up to cover his eye, and an empty paper cup in his other hand. Stood over the scene was a young man in his mid-20's, with brown hair and wearing light coloured jeans and a brown bomber jacket. It was Chris Redfield, of the S.T.A.R.S Alpha Team and one of the sole survivors from the July incident. There was remnants of wet coffee on his cheek for some reason.

"You saw that!" shouted Elran, still on his back, "he knocked me out! You're crazy Redfield!"

"Oh yeah?" taunted Chris, remaining defiant, "7 people are dead. You find that funny? Maybe next time you should keep a better hold of your coffee, Elran." And with that, he turned and walked away down the corridor.

"Goddamn S.T.A.R.S fucker," grumbled Elran, getting to his feet, "YOU'RE A DAMNED PYSCHO!" he then shouted down the corridor.

"Maybe you should stop being an ass for just one minute Elran," growled Dean as he suddenly appeared in the middle of the throng. The injured officer turned on Dean, his teeth set in an angry grimace. "He's right: 7 people dead isn't a laughing matter. You should know better."

"You wanna go a round then, Travers?" he asked, mockingly.

"No, I don't fight people who are up themselves like you so obviously are," retorted Dean with a know-it-all tone, pushing past Elran into the corridor. The other officers just laughed at Dean getting one over on their unfortunate colleague.

"Hey come on ladies, that's enough," added Ben from the back of the gathering, as they all began to calm down.

Beyond in the Eastern corridor, Dean watched as Redfield seemed to be conversing with a young woman dressed in casual jeans and a black jacket, near to the doors leading into the main hall. She had chestnut-coloured hair that was cut in a bob-style, along with peachy-coloured skin.

"Come on Chris, was that really necessary?" she asked, referring to him by his forename. "We all know Hugo's a dick, but don't give them further ammunition to use against us!"

"Hey, don't worry, it'll be fine in the end, trust me," Chris replied, giving her a quick wink, before pushing through the door into the main hall. Before he did, he looked back down the corridor and gave Dean a hard glance, but it only lasted a split second before he had disappeared through the door. The young woman looked at the closed door for a few seconds, looking rather forlorn, before she turned away. When she noticed Dean standing there, her bright blue eyes lit up.

"Hey Dean," she said, approaching him as he continued to stand there, unmoving.

"Hey there Jill," he said finally, with a friendly smile.

Jill Valentine was one of the other members of the S.T.A.R.S Alpha team, a former Delta Force operative who, along with being an expert in firearms and demolitions, was also 'the master of unlocking', if you believed everything that the other S.T.A.R.S members told you. Rumour was that her father was supposedly a famous cat burglar, who passed on some of his 'talents' onto her, but that had never been confirmed as long as she'd been in Raccoon. In short, she was more than a match, perhaps even above pretty much every other regular uniformed officer in the R.P.D, and also happened to be the object of lust for nearly every male officer in the building. But none of them would try anything though: she could probably kill someone with a paperclip if she wanted to. Dean had to admit that she was pretty easy on the eye as well…but that wasn't the important thing right now. She was one of the friendlier S.T.A.R.S members as well, much easier to talk to that many of the others.

"You're looking well," she replied.

"Well thank you very much," he smiled back, "so do you."

"Well I don't feel it," she murmured, looking a little pale as she said it.

"You been getting much sleep lately?" he asked, in a concerned tone.

"No," she replied, matter-of-fact. "None of us are, not after what happened."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he replied, with a genuine tone. "And I won't be making any jokes either: there's nothing funny about people dying."

"Thank you," she replied with a sweet smile. "That's at least one person on our side at least."

At that point, the door into the main hall creaked open and Neil Carlsen stuck his head round the corner. "Jill, the Chief would like to see you in his office, now."

Dean noticed that she seemed shiver in revulsion, before she replied. "Thanks Neil." Neil just nodded and his head disappeared back around the door.

"Well," Jill said, turning to face Dean. "The Chief calls, so I'd best get going."

"Well, I don't envy you," smiled Dean. "He's been in a really irritable mood lately for whatever reason." As he finished, the door behind them banged open. They turned to see a blonde-haired officer, called Baur, standing there, a lecherous smile on his face.

"Hey Valentine!" he shouted, a leering look on his face. "Don't waste your time with that nobody, you should go with someone with big cojones, like me!"

"Hey Baur," Jill replied, a devilish look on her face. "Come closer and I'll tear your cojones off, how would you like that?" Baur's face dropped, before it turned white, before he finally turned and ambled away, almost ashamedly. Dean looked at Jill, a victorious look on her features. "You'd think he'd have learned his lesson the first time, huh?" she then added.

"Remind me not to piss you off," he said with a smirk.

"See you around Dean," she said, before vanishing through the door. He watched after her for a few seconds, before he turned back to find himself faced with Ben, a cheeky smirk on his face.

"Hey come on man, you blocked the view of her ass!" he mock-whined. "Now that's a sight worth getting out of bed for!"

"Ben, drag your mind out the gutter, please!" protested Dean, breaking out in a grin.

"No! You should join me down here, it's nice!"

They both fell about laughing at that point.

Dean smiled a little at the memory. It seemed so far away now.

"Dean?" asked Alyssa, getting his attention.

"What?" he asked, dumbfounded, before he saw her somewhat blank expression. "Oh sorry, I was miles away." She just sighed again, before she reached into one of her jacket pockets and took out a small white pill.

"What's that?" Dean asked.

"It's an anti-virus pill, it stunts the growth of the virus."

"But…you're not infected, are you?" Dean asked again, feeling a little uncomfortable now.

"Better safe than sorry," she explained, still holding the pill in her hand. "From what we've seen, the virus spreads through direct contact. But what if it spreads through some other means, such as through the water supply? Pretty much the whole population feel victim within a very short time-span."

She made a good point, but he still didn't find the fact he could have secretly been infected all along without realising it very comforting at all. Was he going to turn into a zombie even if he managed to avoid getting mauled by some monster lurking in the town?

_If it comes to that, I know what to do, _he thought, tightening the grip on his weapon. The alternative didn't bear thinking about.

"Want one?" she then asked, handing him the pill she was holding.

"You able to spare one?"

"We've got plenty between us," she explained. "One of the other people with us before was a doctor. He managed to make a bunch of these before we got separated."

"How kind of him," noted Dean, as he earnestly took the pill and swallowed it down, the rough texture of the pill surface rubbing his throat the wrong way.

"Just try and remember to take one every few hours or so," she explained, passing him a small plastic bag filled with a few pills. Afterwards, she took her own pill and swallowed it down.

"Thanks," Dean said, as he tucked the bag of pills into his back pocket.

As he finished doing that, a groaning sound was heard from overhead, and they both looked up, just as the overhead sprinklers burst into life, soaking everything beneath them once again. And this time, the water didn't cease after a few seconds.

"They did it!" smiled Alyssa. "Took them long enough though."

"Maybe they ran into some trouble along the way that slowed them down," added Dean, watching as the inferno that had been steadily creeping across the tunnel area started to thin out, then finally became fully extinguished, small trails of smoke leading away into the air, before the sprinkler system finally shut off completely. There was a beep from the front of the train as a red warning light shut itself off, indicating that the train was ready to go now.

"Now we're making some headway," smirked Dean.

Then in the darkness outside, something shrieked. It sounded similar to the cries of the giant fleas, but somehow this one sounded much, much larger. The hairs on the back of Dean's neck stood up on end.

"What was that?" asked Alyssa fearfully, getting to her feet.

"I'd rather not find out," replied Dean, getting to his feet and readying his SMG. The monstrous shriek sounded yet again, and this time he stepped outside, shining his flashlight attachment this way and that, trying to see any kind of possible threat.

"Er, Dean, do you think it's such a good idea to be standing in the open like that?" Alyssa asked fearfully.

"Probably not," he replied, tightening the hold on his weapon, "but we have to be sure of what's coming."

THUD!

He spun to see something looming out of the dark towards him. Whatever it was, it was massive, far bigger than him, but its finer features were relatively obscured. He still felt his stomach turn over on itself though.

He raised his SMG and tried to fire, but he felt something hard strike him in the chest and he was thrown back into the concrete wall behind him, the wind knocked out of his lungs, pain flaring in his shoulders and on the back of his head. He hit the floor hard, hearing a female scream before he finally passed out.

_Dean…_

The voice sounded miles away, or underwater. It seemed very unclear to him, but being knocked out tends to do that to you.

_Dean…wake up…_

The voice came again, and he began to piece together the voice's owner, which seemed juts beyond his grasp, and yet so close at the same time.

"Dean!"

He woke with a start, stars swimming before his vision. He blinked several times, the figures of Kevin and David blurring into view, both of them looking concerned. He then realised that he was lying on his front on the cold ground.

"What happened?" asked Dean, still feeling a bit groggy.

"Dude we found you flat on the ground!" exclaimed Kevin, sounding stressed. "We just got here a minute ago!"

Dean's mind clicked back into working order. He looked around to see an SMG lying discarded on the ground not too far from where they were.

"Where's Alyssa?" he asked, his voice filled with worry.

"Not here," replied David flatly.

"I thought she was with you!" snapped Kevin, his voice raising an octave or two.

"Something attacked us!" snapped Dean back, getting to his feet shakily. "It knocked me out before I could react, then I hear her scream and then-"

Another feminine scream tore through the atmosphere, causing all of them to nearly hit the ceiling. They looked about, before Dean saw something huge moving away into the darkness to the left of the subway train. Another scream came from the thing itself, before a very familiar voice followed it.

"Let go of me, you damned insect!"

"Alyssa!" shouted Kevin, but he didn't get a response. By then, the huge shape had shifted away into the dark depths of the tunnel.

"What the hell was that?" asked David in a strangely calm tone.

"I don't know, but why did it take her instead of killing her?" asked Kevin.

"Who cares!" groaned Dean, picking up his own SMG. "We gotta save her before it does eat her!"

"Fine by me," replied Kevin with a devilish grin. "Come on David, let's go kick some monstrous ass!"

"Oh yeah," smiled the plumber, grinning like a wolf and cocking his shotgun for effect. They both started to make a move towards the edge of the platform, lowering themselves onto the tracks.

"Wait up!" called Dean, limping after them.

"Stay here Dean, you're hurt," commanded Kevin.

"But-"

"Do as I say Dean!" shouted Kevin. "Before you get yourself killed!" Dean just gave him a forlorn look, before the two of them turned away and began to walk in the direction the unknown monster took. A few seconds later, they heard the sound of someone landing on the gravel behind them. They turned to see Dean stood there, his SMG armed and looking determined.

"Dean, I thought I said-"

"I heard what you said," snapped Dean, cutting him off, "but I can still walk and I can still use a gun. Now that monster was pretty damned big, so we need all of us to co-operate to take it down. And I was supposed to stop Alyssa from being taken, so I won't just stand by while she's in danger of being eaten alive. And with all due respect Kevin, if you try and tell me to go back, I'll tell you where you can stick it."

Kevin's face remained blank for several seconds, before he began to smile wide. "I wouldn't have it any other way buddy."

Dean returned the smile, before he began to walk towards them, his limp apparently gone already. "Well what are we waiting for?"

With a shared nod, all three of them ran off into the dark tunnel, their feet crunching on the gravel.

(A/N: Cue boss battle!)

They skidded to a halt at the far end of the tunnel, their path blocked by some green slimy stuff that resembled a spider's web. It blocked the entire tunnel circumference, from the top of the structure to the tracks at the very bottom. Half-eaten corpses and discarded bones were stuck in the substance at various locations, as if they were some meal stored for later consumption. Maybe they were. But it was what was right in front of them that they interested in.

"What the hell?!" asked David as they just stared at it.

It was another of those fleas, but this one made all of the others look miniscule in comparison. It was massive, almost as high as the tunnel itself, at least the height of two trains piled on top of one another, and at least 10 feet wide. Its segmented body was covered in thick bristles as thick as Dean's arm, and its fore limbs loomed overhead, hooked barbs covering the ends of each limb. Each bard looked as though it could fillet any of them with a single slash. And in its middle arms it held onto its still live intended prey of Alyssa.

"Alyssa!" shouted Kevin.

"Oh thanks for coming guys!" she shouted back. "I would like to get out of the giant flea's grasp now!" Dean was amazed that she still retained her attitude despite her current predicament.

"Yeah, just hold on!" Dean called. "We'll get you out of there!"

"Well I'm not going anywhere," she called back sarcastically.

"Less talk, more action," said David simply.

BOOM!

His shotgun tore a small wound in the giant flea's stomach, and it howled in agony, its scream bouncing off of every surface in the tunnel area and threatening to deafen them into submission.

_I'm starting to like that guy, _mused Dean, before he opened fire himself. His salvo tore another wound in the monster's gut, and it shrieked again, before lashing out with one of its forelimbs.

"Crap!" blurted Dean, as both he and David were knocked off of their feet by a single blow, landing hard on their backs on the rough gravel surface. "Not again!" the cop growled, as he fired at the monster again, still lying on his back. He unloaded the entire clip into its stomach, causing it to stagger in pain, before he got back to his feet and slammed another clip home.

Kevin meanwhile circled around to the flea's right side, firing off shotgun blasts into its side, but some of his blasts were deflected by its armoured carapace. He still managed to hurt it though, if its cries were any indication. It swung its arm at him, but he deftly ducked, causing the blow to go over his head instead. He fired at the exposed limb, causing blood to spurt from the unarmoured areas of the limb. The giant flea groaned as it brought the arm back above its head, and it took a single step backwards. Apparently, it didn't have anywhere else to run, but that suited them just fine, thought Kevin, reloading his shotgun fully.

Dean and David watched cautiously as the giant flea took another step backwards, occasionally lashing out with its arms in an attempt to catch them, but they were always too quick on their feet to avoid the blows. Each time it missed they took a shot at any exposed part of its body, but its immense bulk meant that it was taking a lot of punishment. They just had to hope that they had enough ammo to deal with it.

Dodging yet another arm swipe directed at him, Kevin fired at the arm's joint, and the limb snapped in two, sending blood squirting up into the air and onto the R.P.D officer's hair. The severed limb twitched a few times as it lay on the ground, and Kevin smiled at the creature's apparent discomfort.

"Don't like that, do ya buddy?" he taunted, reloading his shotgun.

Suddenly, it threw its head back and let off another long shriek.

"What now?" growled Dean, ready for anything to happen.

"Watch out guys!" cried Alyssa, still stuck in the monster's hold. "It's calling for help!"

"What?!" asked Kevin, just as heard some skittering from behind him and he turned, in time to see 4 rolling shapes come charging out of the dark towards him. His eyes widened in shock, before he quickly dove out of the way, the shapes passing him by just barely. The things unveiled themselves in front of the giant flea, revealing themselves as average-sized fleas.

"Oh great, it called for backup," seethed Dean, as he eyed up the four new arrivals. They all shrieked at one another but held their ground, eyeing up their human adversaries.

"You think the big one's the queen?" mentioned David. "It did just summon a load of smaller ones to help it!"

"Seems a reasonable enough theory," replied Dean, "but we're gonna kill them all anyways!" And with that, he opened fire on the assembled fleas, gunning one of them down before the others hopped into action.

One of them bounced straight at David and rolled itself into a ball. The plumber managed to fire off one shot that bounced off of the flea's carapace, before it smacked into him and knocked him onto his rear. But as the flea began to unroll itself, Dean fired into its side, distracting it long enough for the plumber to grab a lug wrench from his tool belt and slam it into the bug's facial area. The creature flinched, but he slammed the tool into its face again, breaking something vital and killing it instantly.

"Fucker," he said simply.

Kevin dived again as two rolling fleas bounced past him, his shotgun falling from his grasp. Still lying on the floor, he drew his .45 and aimed it at the two fleas as they slowed down and stopped.

"Eat this!"

BANG!

His first shot punched through the back of one flea's skull, dropping it instantly, the second one turning to face the one threatening its life. Kevin fired off 3 more shots in quick succession, punching the monster off of its feet. It landed on its back, writhing about in pain, still alive but probably close to death.

Dean fired a few bursts at the queen flea, watching as it writhed about in agony with each impact to its soft flesh. It took another swing at him, but he hopped back in time to avoid the blow, leaving its head region wide open to a clear shot. Taking a deep breath, he lined up his aim and fired.

A few shots hit home, glancing off of the queen's head carapace, but she still shrieked and shook her head in pain, and causing her to release her grip on Alyssa. She fell to the ground with a thump in front of the huge flea, quickly backing away while still on the ground.

"Alyssa!" cried Dean, grabbing her by the back of her jacket and dragging her backwards, just as one of the queen's legs slammed down at where she'd been lying a moment before. He kept dragging her backwards for about 12 feet before he finally let her go.

"You OK?" he asked, getting a look at her pale, fear-ridden face, marked with dirt and sweat in several places, while her jacket had several tears in it, including a rather severe one on one of her arms, which went right down to her skin, leaving a nasty scar.

"Y-yeah," she managed eventually. "But worry about that freak right now!" she then added, pointing at the flea queen, which was attempting to swing at both David and Kevin, both of them keeping just out of its attack range and taking pot shots at its exposed areas of flesh. It was bleeding from over a dozen places, including its severed arm stump, but it was still on its feet, shrieking wildly and trying in vain to take down the humans assaulting it.

"Well hold on," affirmed Dean, "we'll take care of the damned pest." With that said, he rose to his feet and approached the queen, his SMG readied. Aiming up, he fired into its torso, drawing even more blood. So much claret had been spilt during the battle that Dean was amazed that they could all keep their footing on the slippery liquid.

He continued firing for as long as he was allowed, but eventually his weapon clicked on empty, and he found himself reaching down for another magazine. But as his hand reached down, he couldn't find anything down there. Panicking, he took a quick glance as he looked again, but he was out of magazines for the weapon.

"Just my luck," he growled, taking the weapon off and simply discarding it to the side. He hadn't realised how quickly he'd been going through the ammo for it in recent circumstances. Watching the action unfold for a moment, he had a flash of memory and reached for one of the hand grenades on the bandolier he was still wearing. He tore the object free and readied his finger in the pin.

"Hey guys! Take cover!" he shouted to his companions, both of whom stopped firing for just a moment to see what he was going on about, their eyes widening when they say what he was preparing to do.

"He wouldn't," said Kevin.

Dean tore the pin out of the grenade and prepared to throw it.

"He would," replied David.

"SHIT!" swore Kevin, throwing himself into the air and away from the queen flea. David did the same, just as Dean's thrown grenade sailed through the air and landed on the ground by the queen's feet. Dean turned himself and threw himself to the ground near to Alyssa, before he pulled her down into a protective position as well.

BOOM!

The explosion rolled back and forth along the tunnel, the shrapnel from the blast tearing through the frail limbs and brought it crashing down to the ground, as well as tearing a substantial portion of its belly into bloody ribbons. It lay on its side, shrieking wildly and trying to right itself onto its remaining legs. But it was to no avail, and instead it continued to lie there, flailing about in vain.

"Goddamn it won't this thing die?" asked Kevin as he got back on his feet and drew his Colt handgun. He slowly approached the dying monster, being careful to keep outside of the range of its flailing limbs. And then, with dead-eyed aim, he fired off all seven shots in a methodical fashion, each shot blowing apart a piece of its skull. It shrieked loudly with every wound dealt to it, but it was finally silenced when one of Kevin's rounds punched through its exposed brain, reducing the vital organ to a bloody sludge. With that, its limbs crashed to the ground and the tunnel finally fell silent.

All four of them just remained still and silent, staring at the broken and bloody body of the behemoth insect that had taken so much effort to best.

"Damn, that was a rush!" exclaimed David, reloading his shotgun and walking back to rejoin his companions.

_Oh yeah, nothing like murdering a gigantic pest to make you feel awesome, _thought Dean.

"Geez, that was…unexpected," added Kevin, reloading his handgun with fresh rounds.

"What was unexpected?" asked Dean, sat on his rear, trying to catch his breath.

"Well something like that coming along!" replied Kevin.

"Yeah guys, I'm fine thanks, appreciate the help," butted Alyssa in suddenly, appearing next to Dean, her old attitude seemingly back in force. She was stood with her arms crossed and a stern look on her face, a far cry from her seemingly fearful expression that Dean had witnessed beforehand.

"Yeah, anytime," replied Dean, forcing himself to his feet, the exertion clear on his face.

"Dean, you feeling OK?" Alyssa then asked, her expression becoming concerned once again.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," he seethed, moving back towards the way they'd come. "Let's just get out of here, all right?"

Everyone nodded in agreement, before they moved into action, heading back the way they'd originally come, leaving the corpses of the dead fleas behind them.

Back at the platform, Alyssa's SMG was handed back to her, as Dean sat himself down on one of the seats inside the train, leaning back and grunting a little. He hadn't realised suddenly how fatigued and worn out he'd been feeling lately, but the adrenaline had made sure that he'd been able to go on without collapsing where he stood.

"Hey man, you doing OK?" asked Kevin as the others joined him inside.

"To be honest, no I'm not," Dean replied honestly, reaching a hand behind his head and feeling something wet. He bought it back to see his palm stained wet with blood. "Oh geez…" He must have split his head open when the queen flea slammed him up against the platform wall beforehand.

"Hey, let's get some first-aid spray on that," advised Kevin, pulling a can out of his utility belt. Holding Dean's head still with one hand, he sprayed some of the herbal-sweet smelling substance on his head wound. Dean felt the sting of the spray in his open wound, but he had to leave it to settle in, otherwise it wouldn't heal as fast as it was supposed to. Once that was done, Kevin sprayed the rest of it over his colleague's body, and he began to sense his aches and pains going away and his weary bones being treated as well. He sighed in relief.

"Better?" asked Kevin as he simply tossed the empty can away from him.

"Much," Dean replied.

"Look, can we get going now?" asked Alyssa in a worried tone and looking around outside the train.

"Er, yeah sure," replied Kevin in an unsure tone, moving to the front of the train. Looking at the control panel in front of him, he pushed a button that showed an image of doors closing, and the carriage doors came shut with a hydraulic whoosh. That done, he looked again, trying to logically work out what control to try next.

"Dude, do you know how to drive a train?" asked David from behind him.

"Not really," replied Kevin flatly.

"OK then," said David, and said no more on the subject. Kevin looked back at the control panel, and eyed up a large lever with a red handle on it. Thinking logically, he began to push it forwards, and he felt the motion of the train coming to life, slowly.

"Hold on people," he shouted, pushing the lever forward some more, "we're out of here!"

The train picked up speed as it trundled out of the station and into the dark tunnel beyond.

**A/N: Geez, biggest chapter yet. o_O**** EPIC in fact, as Metal Harbinger would say. Oh well, as long as you all like it, that's the main thing I suppose. As usual, R+R please. **


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14: Human Filth

**September 17****th**** 0714 hours**

The train made its way through the dark tunnels at a brisk pace, Kevin stood stony-faced at its controls, praying that he wouldn't miss the stop they were looking for, or more dangerously, go too fast and derail the train and kill all of them instantly, which would truly suck, to say the last.

David stood at the rear of the carriage, arms folded and staring out at the world which raced by, while Dean and Alyssa were both sat down, the former having his eyes closed and rocking slightly where he sat, due to the motion of the train. Alyssa sat opposite him, just staring at him as he slept. His face might have been filthy and his clothes and hair were stained with dried blood, but otherwise she found him rather handsome. But of course, she wouldn't say that to his face, cause he'd probably laugh at her instead. Suddenly, he shifted in his seat and opened his eyes slowly.

"Are we there yet?" he asked, almost sounding like a bored child on a long road trip.

"Not quite," replied Kevin from the front. "Which station are we looking for again?"

"Bachman Street station," Dean replied, stretching. "It's the closest to the southern outskirts of the city."

"Isn't there a way we can get outside the city totally?" added Alyssa hopefully. "What about a train yard or something?"

"That's still inside the city limits," answered David, finally joining the conversation. "Getting that far wouldn't help us very much."

"So, the best we can do is to head for Bachman Station and go from there," explained Dean, getting to his feet and stretching. "And we don't have many more choices aside from that, so don't suggest anything else."

"Joy," mumbled Alyssa.

"But it's still about 15 minutes away to our final destination," added Kevin. "So try and relax, OK? Nothing can get to us in here."

He'd be regretting that statement soon though.

THUMP!

Something heavy landed on the roof above them, and they all jumped to attention, with Alyssa looking as though she nearly hit the ceiling in the process. They all reached for their weapons and looked around fearfully.

"The hell was that?" asked Kevin, abandoning his position at the controls.

"Well whatever it was, it had better stay out there," murmured David in typically dry fashion.

THUMP!

They all jumped again, scanning their weapons outside the carriage windows for any sign of something that resembled a threat.

"Could it be one of those fleas again?" asked Kevin.

"Well if it is, they didn't get the hint from beforehand," growled Dean, as he cocked his shotgun for added impetus.

THUMP! THUMP!

The sounds came more frequently now, causing their panic to raise, their movements becoming more frantic to try and find their attackers.

"Come on, come on, show yourselves," muttered Dean through his clenched teeth. He really wasn't in the mood for this crap, especially after that tussle with the queen flea back there.

Then as quickly as they came, the sounds were gone. They all stood there; silent aside from the rumbling of the train on its tracks, ready for anything that would come at them. Several moments passed, but nothing came or happened. It looked as though they were safe for now. The civilians started to lower their weapons.

"Is it-"

Dean saw something brown move at one of the windows next to him, and he flicked his weapon in its direction.

BOOM!

The weapon roared next to David's head and the offending window exploded in a shower of glass.

"Ah damn it!" cried David, holding his ear.

CRASH!

Another window further up the carriage exploded and a brown shape landed inside the train, parking itself between Alyssa and Kevin. It was another of those fleas, a fairly small one, covered in dried blood and with its carapace covered in numerous large scratches, as though it had been attacked by something else.

It shrieked at them, before Kevin put a shotgun blast through the back of its head, spraying its blood and brain contents all over the ground. As the shotgun blast died away, more windows around them shattered and more fleas bounded through into the carriage, intent on feeding. They bounded off of the walls and ceiling to find a good angle to strike from, but none of them got even close, as SMG and shotgun fire shot them down in mid-air.

Dean swung his shotgun around, batting away a flea that dove at him with great speed, before he drove the barrel into its open mouth as it lay on the ground and fired, blowing it apart from the inside. Meanwhile, David unloaded into another monster flea as it landed before him, blowing most of its body into bloody chunks, while Alyssa unloaded on yet another as it clung to the ceiling, peppering its body with 9mm rounds, until a fateful round to the skull felled it instantly.

Silence fell, as whirls of gun smoke ascended, and the sounds of battle faded away totally, replaced by the trundling of the carriage on the tracks, and the hurried breathing of the assembled survivors, as they waited to see if anything else were to come. After several seconds, they all exhaled deeply and lowered their weapons, content that the danger had passed for now. The sound of weapons being reloaded and safeties being put on sounded in the carriage.

"What were you saying about us being safe in here?" asked David sarcastically. Kevin rolled his eyes.

"I don't know absolutely everything, you know," he snapped back. "I'm not physic!"

"Come on ladies, less of that," joked Dean, slinging his shotgun over his shoulder, before admiring the almighty mess they had all made. Blood and brain tissue was splattered up the walls and along the floor and ceiling, the corpses of a few dead fleas littering the main aisle of the carriage, the smell of gunpowder lingering in the air as well.

"Well so much for an uneventful ride," muttered Alyssa, sitting herself back down.

"Hey, did you expect anything else?" asked Dean, still smiling a little.

CRASH!

He felt a whoosh of air behind him, the sensation of several shards of glass hitting him at high speed, then of something heavy landing on his upper back. He only had to see the brown segmented limbs that hung over his shoulders to know what was holding onto him, and to send him into a wide-eyed panic.

"Dean!" cried Kevin, drawing his Colt .45 and aiming over his colleague's shoulder.

"Don't you dare!" shouted Dean back as he began to shake himself like mad in an effort to get the thing to let go of him, but it only dug its legs deeper into his shoulders, causing him slight amounts of pain and drawing blood as it did so, but he just gritted his teeth and reached behind his head, getting a hold of the monster bug on each side of its head as best he could, and wrenching it back in an effort to stop it from taking a bite.

But as he did, the momentum carried them both backwards and Dean felt himself smack into the open window behind him, nearly falling out as well, and feeling the rush of air against his face as he did so. Luckily for him, Alyssa managed to grab a hold of him and pulled him back, enough to stop him falling out of the window, but still not enough to deal with the huge bug clinging to his back.

"Dean! Hold on!" she cried, trying to get a good grip on his jacket.

"What do you think I'm trying to do?!" he snapped back, feeling the jagged limbs dig into his shoulders some more and crying out in pain as they did. By then David and Kevin had grabbed a hold of one arm each and were trying to pull him back inside, but the strength of the huge bug didn't seem relative to its size, and a tug-of-war began, with a human life as the ultimate prize.

"Get...off…me!" seethed Dean, still keeping a firm grip on the flea's head as the other three survivors tried to drag him back inside.

"Goddamn…insect!" growled Kevin as he nearly dislocated his arms trying to save his friend from being dragged out to certain death.

But Dean realised they wouldn't be able to win this way, not in a million years. They didn't have much of a choice now…

"Let me go!" he cried.

"What?!" shouted Kevin, looking understandably worried.

"You can't save me this way! Just let me go and worry about yourselves!"

"We're not…letting…you go!" seethed David, still keeping a grip on Dean's shoulder.

"Screw that!" agreed Alyssa, holding onto his jacket.

"Don't get yourselves all killed because of me!" Dean shouted back, feeling the breeze outside the carriage again, and the hot breath on the back of his neck as well. "It's no good if we all get killed here!"

Kevin began to see sense at his colleague's argument: if all of them got killed in that subway tunnel, then none of them could still be left over to go after Umbrella and make them pay for all this crap they were responsible before. But at the same time this seemed way too familiar to him: back at J's Bar, they had all stood alongside other officers from the R.P.D, but all of them had died, just so they could all get to safety. He wasn't about to let that happen again.

"No!" he cried, not relinquishing his grip. "I'm not letting anyone else die just so I can live for a bit longer!"

"For God's sake Kevin!" replied Dean. "Be reasonable!"

"He's right!" cried back David. "Don't be stupid!"

"Fine!" growled Kevin, defeated. "But if you live through this Dean, you'd better come back and show me that you're a fighter! You hear me?!"

"Deal!" replied Dean.

"Right, here goes nothing," Kevin then said, giving a look to his two companions.

All at once, they let go of their friend.

Dean felt himself sucked off of his feet and through the window, feeling the intense breeze against him, before everything blacked out.

Ben's legs finally gave out and he collapsed on his hands and knees in front of a dumpster, gasping for breath and retching in equal amounts. Finally, the adrenaline rush was a bit too much for him and he threw up, emptying his stomach contents onto the concrete beneath him. He didn't care about hating the thought of throwing up, or the smell of it or the chance of getting it all over himself: his body needed to cleanse itself, and he complied with flying colours. The business done, he started to spit out the remnants of vomit in his mouth, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and getting back to his feet.

He looked behind him in time to see his companions come running up and stopping just next to him, out of breath. Simon, Max and Cliff.

Four people left, from an initial group of about 9 or so. The others were all dead. Those mutated insects, no matter how many of them were killed; another just appeared to take its place. The unarmed civilians were slashed to bloody pieces right before Ben's eyes as he fumbled to reload his shotgun. He'd failed them, and even worse, he'd failed Roger, when one of them suddenly loomed behind him, grabbing the veteran officer in a death hold and literally sucking his brain out in one swift move. He still remembered the look of unadulterated terror on the man's face as he crumpled to the floor; a look that was forever burned into the back of his mind.

His brain was in overload trying to process all of the things he had seen and his own personal thoughts on the subject. The zombies, it was certain that they were the actual people of Raccoon City, transformed by some evil, whether it was natural or artificial in origin. But those insects…where the hell did they come from? It didn't seem possible that anything could have created those, or that they came from some other normal insect. They were more like a living nightmare, given life by the chaos engulfing the city, or some hellish daemon spat out of the mouth of hell itself. Anything seemed possible now.

But whatever was to blame, there were only four of them left alive now. They'd been running for over half an hour, and had gotten themselves well and truly lost in the process.

"Now what?" asked Max, in between hurried gulps for air.

"I don't know," replied Ben, his voice almost a whisper, as he pushed himself off of the dumpster and walked into the middle of the alleyway.

"Where are we supposed to go now?" asked Cliff, with genuine concern.

"I don't know," repeated Ben, his voice still hoarse and low.

"We can't wait here," added Simon. "What next?"

"I don't know," repeated Ben, for the third time.

"So what the hell-"

Ben turned and kicked the side of the dumpster, hard enough to put a dent into it.

"I DON'T FUCKING KNOW!"

Everything fell silent as the other stared hard at Ben, looking as though his eyeballs were going to fall out of his skull by themselves. Finally, he turned away from them and buried his face in his hands.

"What's the use?" he then said, almost sobbing as he did so. "We can't survive this. No-one can!"

"Ben!" shouted Simon.

"We should be dead already!"

"Great, he's lost it," said Cliff, shaking his head slightly.

"You're not helping," seethed Max from next to him, clutching at the claw wound on his arm. Even though it had been a good time since it had been inflicted, it was still quite uncomfortable to him, and the fact that it kept bleeding every now and then, even though they'd stopped for a moment to bandage it with a shred from his other sleeve shirt. And his head felt as though someone had dropped an anvil on it.

"Fuck what I said before, there's no hope for any of us in this mess," wailed Ben. "We should just blow our own brains out and be done with it then!"

"Ben!" cried Simon. Ben turned around.

THWACK!

A gloved first smacked him in the cheek, knocking him off of his feet. He looked up at Simon as he lay on the ground, who just shook his hand a few times to get rid of some of the pain.

"You giving up now?" he asked, staring down at Ben. "That's not the Ben I knew a few hours ago. Sure, it looks bad. In fact, it looks impossible, but we won't know if we can make it unless we try to make it. We've made it this far, so are you going to just break down on us? Or are you going to try and get us out of this shit-hole in one piece? Well?"

Ben just continued staring up at the S.W.A.T officer, not moving.

"You know what, fine. Suit yourself," continued Simon, in a casual tone. "You might want to give up now, but I for one won't be. So you can come with us, or you can stay here and let those things find you. Your choice."

"No," muttered Ben, finally getting to his feet shakily. "I'll fight through this, but I can't handle being the leader for much longer. Simon, would you mind taking over?"

"Of course not," replied the S.W.A.T officer, giving Ben a heart pat on the shoulder. The uniformed officer gave a slight smile back, as Simon turned to face the others. "OK then, we gotta keep going."

"What?" asked Cliff in disbelief. "Screw this, you're all on your own." He started to turn away from them.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" asked Simon in reply, getting the gruff man's attention.

"He's gone crazy," replied Cliff, pointing a blood-stained finger at Ben. "No way I'm hanging around with him." Ben just stood by, his face passive.

"You won't last a minute by yourself," moaned Max, looking a little groggy.

"I'm willing to take that chance," retorted Cliff, walking away a short distance. "Better than staying with the crazy brigade."

"Fine, sign your own death warrant," interjected Simon, getting Cliff's attention again. "But if you want to get out of here alive, then you're best off staying with us. Entirely your choice, though."

There was a tense silence, suddenly broken by a few hacking coughs. They all turned to see Max bent over double, coughing his lungs up by the sounds of it. His MP5 had been dropped onto the ground beside him, as the coughing became worse and he fell down to his knees. No, he wasn't coughing…it sounded more like retching.

"Max! You feeling OK?" asked Ben, running up to tend to his friend.

"I…don't…know," coughed Max in reply. "It feels like my stomach's…on fire!" and then he continued his retching. With one deep hack, a glob of congealed blood suddenly flew out of his mouth and sprayed on the ground before him. Ben just stared at the red stain before he caught a glimpse of his friend's slashed arm. The flesh around the wound appeared to be turning grey, as though the skin had died…but the wound had only been inflicted recently.

"Max, your arm-" he said, making a reach to take a closer look at the injury.

"Get off me!" shouted Max suddenly, shoving Ben away from him, who fell on his rear and scrambled to his feet as Max lowered his head and his body started convulsing all over as though he were having a seizures. The others just watched carefully and in confusion, as he finally dropped to his hands and knees and wretched, vomiting a stream of green liquid onto the pavement below him, something that was volatile enough to actually scold the ground and raise up a considerable amount of steam.

"What the hell?" asked Cliff, stood at the ready.

Max's skin started to turn an off colour, a grey shade that was creeping across the entire surface of his skin like an evil rash; perhaps it was, as far as Ben was concerned. While all this was going on, Max moaned as though he were in great pain, until he abruptly stopped, and got to his feet in a shaky manner, almost as though he were being controlled by invisible puppeteer strings. Soon he was stood on his feet, arms by his side, his fingers twitching like the legs on a spider that had just been stepped upon.

Finally, Max looked up at his companions, and his eyes opened to reveal nothing but white. His mouth opened and a long, tortured moan escaped.

"Holy shit!" cried Cliff, backing away.

"Max! No!" shouted Simon as Max extended his arms and made a lunge for his former friends, no trace of any human emotion in his eyes. Ben's shotgun fired in his hands and the top half of Max's head disappeared in a puff of red spray, before it slumped to the floor noisily.

"Holy shit!" gasped Ben. "Why the hell did that happen?! He wasn't bitten by a zombie!"

"Forget that! Where's Cliff!" continued Simon. They both looked around, only to see that their other companion had vanished during the confusion, perhaps down the alleyway just ahead of their position when they had initially stopped.

"Goddamn it!" growled Ben. "Idiot's going to get himself killed!"

"Well forget about him!" reasoned Simon. "We need to worry about ourselves for now."

"Suppose your right," admitted Ben, "even if I'm not fully comfortable with it." Simon gave him a hard glare, before he looked around and fixed his look on an open alleyway just ahead of them.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get out of here."

Before they left, Ben took one last look at Max's body. He didn't like the idea of leaving him there to rot out in the middle of nowhere, but he didn't have much of a choice really. There was no-one left to give him a decent burial anyways. And by the looks of it, he was turned into a zombie due to that wound from the bug monster back there. So did that mean risking contact with any of the city's monstrous denizens could be fatal for them? It seemed logical to assume so.

He quickly hurried after Simon.

His eyes flickered open a few times, before he finally felt the weight of the intense pain in his back struck him and he groaned loudly, reaching a hand around to make sure that he wasn't bleeding from the back of his head again. As his vision cleared, he saw bright lights overhead him, and wondered briefly if he had landed at the pearly gates of heaven, but then his vision cleared more and he saw the concrete ceiling of the subway tunnel above him.

_Great, I'm still alive at least…_

He tried to fore himself to sit upright, but pain hit him hard and he fell back into a prone position, groaning as he did so. So, he'd survived falling out of subway train moving at high speed, so it made sense that his body felt as though it were it had been smacked into a brick wall at high speed multiple times.

He gave himself several seconds, before he finally forced himself into standing up, and this time he succeeded, his bones creaking as he straightened up and stretched, catching a glimpse of his watch as he did so. It was just after 11 in the morning, so he'd been out at least 4 hours.

_Damn, didn't realise I'd been out for that long._

He looked around again, and he saw a corpse of one of those giant fleas, lying in a puddle of its own blood, unmoving. He suddenly remembered that before he was dragged out of the train, one of those monsters was clinging to his back. It looked as though the damned thing had cushioned his fall, and just as well that the weight had killed it outright as well, otherwise it would have probably killed him before he woke up. He'd have to be a lot more careful from now on.

Having another thought, he reached into one of his jacket pockets and took out one of the small white anti-viral pills he had received from Alyssa beforehand. He opened up the small packet and swallowed one of the pills, before tucking the packet away again.

Looking around a little more, he eyed his shotgun, lying discarded at the far corner of the area he was on, a small concrete platform about 12 square feet in size. Stooping to retrieve it, he looked to his left and his right, searching for anything that could give him a clue as to where to go to next. To the left, he could make out a plain steel door, situated in the wall about 50 feet away from where he was currently stood, a single bright light illuminated above it. With a deep breath, he readied his Beretta handgun and began to walk towards it.

After a minute or so, he reached the door and stopped for a slight breather. There wasn't a sign or placard of any type on the door, just a yellow sign reading 'AUTHORISED PERSONEL ONLY'. That didn't bode very well, but he couldn't really go looking for another door, otherwise he could be stuck down here for much longer than he wished to be, especially if those fleas were still lurking about.

He looked behind him down the tunnel, thinking of the three other survivors he had been recently separated from.

_Take care guys, and I hope we'll meet again in the future._

With his thoughts given to the others, he stepped through the door, letting it slam shut behind him.

He was now stood in what appeared to be a small storeroom, with several shelving units to his left, and a plain wooden desk to his right, devoid of anything remotely interesting. Overhead, a single light-bulb gave an ample amount of light for him to work with, in particular exposing the dead body that was lying in the far corner. He didn't seem that surprised to see a dead body, so used had he become to their sight in this city of the damned. What he was surprised with was the fact that this body bore the colours and equipment of the U.B.C.S. How one of their number had made it down here was beyond him, but chances were the body could hold something useful that would benefit him.

The man was a fairly youthful-looking guy with sandy-blonde hair that was cut short, along with tanned skin, but otherwise he had no noticeable features, aside from the fact that he had a bullet wound in the left side of his stomach, the blood staining his combat fatigues a considerable amount. He was holding a SIG Pro handgun in his right hand, the slide locked back in the empty position, and his ammunition pouches were all completely empty. Although in one of the pockets on the tactical vest, he did find a small pocket diary, stained slightly with blood. Opening it up, he found that the book was about half-full, the entries going back as far as January 1996, but he found the most recent entries, starting from the beginning of September.

_September 13__th_

_So today is our first day of leave in a long time. We usually have a lot of time of, since the company does a good job of keeping its creations under wraps, but recently there's been a lot of miniature outbreaks. Last week we were called out to a facility in the Rocky Mountains, fairly standard clean-up job it was. Except that Pierce was killed by one of those 'Hunters', which was a real shame. I really liked that guy. _

_Today also marks the 2__nd__ anniversary of my initial date for my execution. At the last minute, the company bailed me out, and now I owe them a lifetime of thanks for giving me something else to do with my life._

_September 25__th_

_We've just received word that there could be a possible outbreak in Raccoon City, so we're all on standby in case the situation escalates. If it does get to that point, this will be the largest situation the U.B.C.S have ever been directly involved in. My stomach's doing somersaults just thinking about it. _

_September 26__th_

_So we got the go-ahead to enter the city. Our objectives: to extract any civilian survivors, with an emphasis placed on Umbrella employees, of course. But this isn't like any other mission I've experienced in the last two years: this is something new altogether, like hell on earth. Literally hundreds of zombies are wandering the streets, along with other B. that seem to have mutated into existence thanks to the outbreak, some of which are completely new to me. _

_Most of us were wiped out within minutes of landing, and as far as I could tell, there's only a few small groups of us left, all from various platoons, all of us split off from the others, and our communications are worthless as well. I'm currently in a group with Archer, Davies, and Sergeant Ginovaef from Bravo Platoon, and we've already made plans to go towards the extraction point at the St. Michael's Clock Tower. But with the way things on the street are, I don't have much faith in getting that far. _

_September 27__th_

_It's hopeless now._

_Sergeant Ginovaef killed them! He turned his gun on Archer and Bridges, muttering something about 'knowing too much.' That's it, he was driven insane by everything he'd seen, I know it! I don't blame him really, but he didn't have to turn on the rest of us. I almost didn't get away myself, but he still managed to shoot me in the side, and without the proper medical supplies, I'll be dead soon. But I don't mind. _

_After everything I've been subjected to over the last two years as an Umbrella lackey, I don't care anymore. I agreed to work for them cause I had no choice, but I'm wishing I never did so now. The needle in the arm was bliss compared to dying in a place like this..._

A small space was left, before Dean read one last line.

_Sharon, I hope I get to see your face in heaven._

He sighed and lowered his head. Despite working for the company responsible for this whole mess, the U.B.C.S members didn't like them as much as he did, and there was no way out of this mess for them. He'd have to do something about that, he thought, as he threw the pocket book back onto the dead body, before noticing the black bag the mercenary was propped up next to. Taking a look inside, he found a number of small tube-like objects, and pulled one out to examine it. Curious, he bent it slightly in his hands and there was a crack sound, before the object started emitting a warm, yellow light that partially filled the room. He knew about these: glow sticks, used by military personnel mostly. The gases inside were separated by glass walls, and by giving them a quick snap, the gases would mix and emit a decent amount of light for a few minutes. Thinking they could be useful, he grabbed a few and stuck them in his side pack.

That taken care of, he stood and looked around, noticing another door opposite of the one he had entered through, also marked with a sign saying 'AUTHORISED PERSONNELONLY'. Opening it slowly, he was struck in the face with the smell of raw sewage, and he turned his head away to catch his breath. That done, he poked his head through the door again and glanced around. A set of concrete stairs lead down into pitch darkness, devoid of any form of lightning. Stepping through and holding his glow stick aloft, he readied his Beretta in his right hand.

"Here goes," he said to himself, descending the steps.

Ben stuck his head up and looked over the edge of the building they were currently on the roof of. They'd stopped for a rest, and decided that it'd be safer to camp out on the roof of small apartment building they had passed, rather than staying at ground level. They hadn't come across Cliff or any other humans during their short trip sadly. But their radios did pick up bursts of a transmission from a small group of police officers holed up in a different place across the city. But they couldn't do anything t assist, just listen to the sounds of tearing flesh and spilt blood.

"So now where do we go?" he asked, not turning to face his companion.

Down at street level, a pack of zombies shuffled by, moaning in unison, passing by where a postal van had crashed head-first into a lamp-post, crumpling the pole over completely.

"Your guess is as good as mine," replied Simon eventually, sat in a nearby corner and checking over his M4A1 for perhaps the 21st time. He didn't have much ammo left for the weapon, but then again Ben didn't have that many shotgun shells left as well, wasting a good number of them on those bug monsters from before. It seemed impossible that those frail-looking creatures could take so much punishment before keeling over…

"Great," muttered Ben, looking about some more. Then in the distance, he could see a huge structure looming, much bigger than the other surrounding buildings. It had to be the Raccoon Stadium, home pitch of the Raccoon Sharks, the city's local football team. The stadium was located just off of Bachman Street, one of the main streets in the city's southern area, and a predominant landmark for anyone trying to find their way around.

"Hey, the stadium's just over there," Ben said, pointing it out to his companion.

"Ah well, at least we're heading in the correct direction," Simon replied with a hopeful smile. "Let's take a few more minutes and get going towards it."

"Fine by me," added Ben, before his face darkened and he heard a strange sound. "Hm?"

"What is it?" asked Simon.

"Shhh!" hissed Ben. "You hear that?"

Simon focused his ears, and soon he could pick up the deep thumping noises, coming in a steady pattern towards them, from down at street level.

"What the hell is that?" asked Simon, a confused look on his face. Waiting for a few more seconds as the noises stopped fairly close to them, Ben risked poking his head over the top of the building and looking down. He quickly wished he hadn't, as he felt his stomach churn in palpable fear.

It was the same thing as before, it had to be. But up close, seeing all of its finer details, he very quickly wished it didn't have to be like that. It was huge and dressed in black, so it had to be the same thing Simon had swerved around earlier. But from here he could make out the demented grin that covered most of its visage, and the crude staples that seemed to be holding its face together like a patchwork quilt. But most of all, he noticed the stinger missile launcher it held in its right hand, and the snake-like tendril that coiled around the weapon's trigger.

"Holy…"

"What is it?" asked Simon, sticking his head over the edge to have a look, and his face fell like a lead balloon as well. "Holy crap…"

As he said that, the thing's head cocked in their general direction, and it exhaled a deep, throaty growl. Had it heard them from down there?

"Oh damn," muttered Ben.

"Move!" hissed Simon, and both of them rose up and hurried away from their position as fast as they could. As they did, they heard a guttural growl, and a metallic click as something was readied.

They threw open the door leading into the stairwell and fell through just as something slammed into their abandoned position, obliterating that entire section of roof in an immense fiery ball.

They descended the steps two at a time, and they were barging through the door that lead outside within about a minute, sprinting away in the direction of the stadium, and past a few loitering zombies, even as they heard the monstrous sound from behind them, chasing them down the alleyway.

"GRAAAGGGHHH!!!"

He waded through the sewer water that went up to just above his knees, breathing through his mouth so he didn't have to put up with the ungodly stench. He'd been down here about 10 minutes now, just following the seemingly endless network of tunnels in an attempt to find a way to the surface. The path was fairly straightforward, but every now and then he'd find a turn that lead to dead ends, so eventually he just stuck to the main route before him. The glow stick in his hand illuminated the deep brown water below him, and the plain brick walls, soiled with unmentionable stuff. He was just about begging for a monster to appear to keep him occupied-

A haunting moan bounced down the passage towards him, and he stopped in his tracks.

_Best not__ to tempt fate again, Dean, _he told himself.

Another moan, followed by the sloshing of water as something moved through the water from ahead of him. He stood still, his Beretta readied, as a shadowy form rounded the corner ahead of him and began to gradually approach. He waited a few seconds, as the creature entered the light, and he could make out the features of a man wearing the outfit of a sanitary worker, soaked and stained to the bone all over, his face covered in trash and other forms of human filth, obscuring his finer features. Squinting in the limited light, he aimed his Beretta towards the being.

BANG!

The single shot hit it between the eyes, and it landed in the water face-first with a loud splash, sinking slightly before floating atop of the water, bobbing slightly. Letting the loud ringing in his ears slip away, Dean moved on, skirting around the fallen zombie, even as it brushed up against him slightly, and around the corner, further along through the raw sewage and water he was stood in. He moved down the passage some more, around a few more corners.

As he got half-way down the next stretch of passage, his glow stick suddenly flickered and cut out, leaving him stranded in the darkness once more. He stopped where he was, trying to find a fresh stick somewhere in his side pack.

"God-damn it," he muttered.

Ad he did, another torturous moan sounded, this one quite a bit closer than the last one he'd heard. He froze again, his blood running cold. He stood in darkness for a few more seconds, listening to see if he were just hearing things, but the moan sounded again, drawing out longer than before, sending the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He peered into the darkness, trying to discern the threat if it were nearby, but it was no use. He had to get some more light on proceedings. Reaching down, he managed to take hold of a glow stick and pulled it out of his pack, but as he did, his fingers slipped and it fell into the water, making a very noticeable sound.

_Plop._

As the noise faded away down the passage, he heard another moan, and a more terrifying sound entered his ears: the sloshing of water, as something waded towards him. He'd given away his position, so he'd have to do something quickly before he got taken by surprise. Quickly, he thrusted his hand into the filthy water and felt around, grimacing as he did so. The sloshing sound came closer, as his hand closed around something and he pulled out the glow stick, caked in dirt and other unmentionable substances.

Quickly, he gave it a crack, and soft yellow light illuminated the corridor.

He turned slightly and found himself face-to-face with a dead face, its mouth full of yellowed teeth and its eyes a ghostly pale colour.

Dean instinctively shouted the first thing which came to mind.

"FUCK!"

BANG! BANG! BANG!

He thrust his gun into the face and fired off three shots in surprise, all of them burying into the evil visage and sending the zombie backwards into the water with a splash, and away from his soft flesh, luckily. He leaned up against one of the brick walls, gasping for breath at the very close call he'd just experienced. He stared down at the floating zombie, waiting for it to come back so he could shoot it a few more times, but no such luck for him in that regard. Instead, he settled on trash-talking the body a little.

"God-damned walking corpse."

With a bit of effort, he forced himself to stand off of the wall and moved on, past the floating corpse, past a network of piping across the walls. Further along the passage, he finally came to a set of metal stairs leading up and out of the water, and he offered a blessing up to whatever God it was that was helping him out until now. Ascending the steps quickly, he let the water drip off of his clothes, but he was sure that he'd never get rid of the smell of sewage on them as long as he still wore them.

Stood at the top of the stairs, he shook himself dry a little more, and wiping his filth-encrusted left hand on the wall a couple of times to remove the bulk of the dirt. That done, he looked up and focused upon a plain steel door in front of him, devoid of any warning signs. With a shrug, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

The room he was now in was of a decent size, around 25 square feet in all, with a large table taking up space in the middle of the room, a row of computer consoles along the far well, next to another door in the far corner, all finished off by a few lockers and a storage chest by the wall to his far left. Overhead, several tube lights illuminated the room, negating the need for his glow sticks anymore, so he casually discarded the one he was still holding, before he dumped his shotgun and Beretta on the table and looked about.

He approached the consoles to see that one of them seemed to map out the layout of the sewer system by way of a multitude of bright lines on a dark black surface, with features such as 'junction rooms' and 'surface access ports' marked. His current position was marked with a blinking blue light that read 'Sewage Control Room 2', and by tracing a route with his finger, he could see that he wasn't too far from a surface access point about 300 yards away to the south. At least he wouldn't have to stay down here with the rats and the filth for much longer.

Looking about, he noticed a document left on top of the table, and he walked over to have a closer look. Most of it was worthless crap about shift changes and staff responsibilities and duties, but the last page offered up something a little more interesting.

_Once a month, officials from Umbrella Inc. will inspect the facilities to ensure that security for them to transport their materials into the main lab facility. If anything doesn't __satisfy their demands, then the utmost effort shall be put into ensuring that by the time of the next inspection their needs will be better satisfied. After all, we don't want them to pull our funding, do we? _

_In addition to these Umbrella-sanctioned inspections, we'll have a visit from the chief of police, Brian Irons once a month as well, just to ensure that things are running smoothly as well. Some might think that this is all a bit too much with regards with inspection duties, but I should remind you all of why exactly we're being paid these huge bonuses: so nobody finds out about what's going on. Otherwise, it'll be all our necks on the line!_

Dean mused this over for a while. It at least proved that Umbrella were up to no good below the city, using the sewer system as a secret transport system for their more illegal operations it would seem. If they'd created a virus that was the root of this whole mess, then who knows what else they were up to in secret? And it also showed that the Chief Irons was involved in the covering up of their activities, further proof of his corruption: he'd gone and sold the entire R.P.D out long before he started trying to gun his own officers down.

He looked over into the far corner of the room and spied several large crates and barrels, all bearing the Umbrella Corporation logo. So this place was being used to smuggle Umbrella products into the city. But what kind of products? The illegal type, most probably.

With a shake of his head, Dean dropped the document back on the table and walked over to the lockers on the far wall. One by one, he opened each one and checked out the interior in case there was anything useful he could use inside. But most of them were either empty or filled with useless junk such as spare clothes and worker's overalls. But when he opened the final locker, he took a step backwards and just stared for what seemed like an age.

"Holy shit!"

Propped up inside the locker was a grenade launcher, an RGB-6 model to be precise, complete with a 6-round revolving chamber and a case of grenades with red-coloured warheads, identifying them as napalm gel-loaded rounds. Whoever got a hold of this weapon most definitely broke the law: weapons like that weren't very legal, so to speak. But right now, protocol had been pretty much thrown out the window, so anything would help him right now. A post-it note had been stuck to the side of the weapon's revolving chamber, and it simply said:

_Whoever finds this, it should come in handy against those damned pests that have taken over the tunnel ahead. Burn them all to hell!_

He figured that the 'pests' mentioned in the note weren't of the regular variety, considering the current situation. Curious, he left the locker and opened the other door in the room, peering out into the next area. He saw a long catwalk at his level, suspended over running water about 20 feet below. The brick ceiling and most of the wall surfaces were covered in webs, huge webs that couldn't have been made by regular sized-spiders. His mind wandered back to the giant spiders he had tussled with back at the clock tower.

Slowly, he closed the door and returned to the still-open locker with the grenade launcher still propped-up inside it. Removing the note and crumpling it up, he tossed it aside before he removed the bulky weapon and slung the strap over his shoulder, feeling the considerable weight on his person, but he had to endure it if he wanted to use the weapon. With that done, he then reached for the case of rounds and counted out 12 spare napalm rounds which he dropped into his side-pack, which was just about full now.

Clicking open the revolving chamber, he saw that the weapon was already fully-loaded, and satisfied, he clicked it shut again. Now he was fully set to go, he hoped. Approaching the door again, he pushed it open and stepped through, letting it swing shut behind him.

The small store looked abandoned from the outside, aside from the occasional twitching of the window blinds and the two pairs of eyes which looked outside every now and then, searching for danger outside.

"I think the coast is clear," muttered one of the voices.

"You sure?" asked the other voice.

"Well he hasn't come by in 10 minutes, so I'd assume so," replied the first voice. Several seconds later, two men emerged from the store. One was dressed in the uniform of the R.P.D and armed with a Remington shotgun, while the other was dressed in full black combat gear, complete with Kevlar body armour and heavy combat boots, being armed with an M4A1 assault rifle. Both men's clothes were tattered and heavily blood-stained.

"Well let's get going, please," urged Ben, looking around. It was nearly mid-day now, and the sun was at its highest point in the sky, somewhat alleviating the harsh atmosphere of the city that he had already witnessed before. He squinted through the light as he surveyed the broken streets he used to call home. He recognised the street they were on as Bachman Street, one of the main roads in the southern city that lead straight to the Raccoon Stadium: he and Dean took this route all the time in the past, when they and others from the R.P.D went to attend the local football games. But those times seemed ages ago now: the street was a shell of its former self, with shop windows smashed in, light poles bent or uprooted from the ground, and cars piled atop one another, into mounds of twisted metal. Worse of all, the mid-day light exposed the blood which seemed to coat practically every surface he could think of: the pavement, the broken shards of glass from former windows, the wrecked vehicles, everything. He shuddered at the thought of countless human bodies being viciously torn apart and their life blood splattering onto anything in range.

"Ben!" shouted Simon, standing ahead of Ben on the street. Ben looked up, broken out of his thought processes. "The longer we stand about means the less time we have to get out of here, so shake a leg!"

"Fine," replied Ben, hurrying after his companion.

Their walk down the road was fairly uneventful, but they stayed alert all the same, their weapons readied and nosing into any dark corner they came across, in case of a threat lurking within. Black crows pecked at the odd desecrated corpse they came across, but they would take flight as the survivors approached, circling in the sky a few times before disappearing over nearby buildings. They cawed as they circled, but aside from that the only sounds that could be heard were the haunting moans of the city's former residents echoing down the streets.

"The sooner we get out of here the better," muttered Simon, looking around fearfully.

"Amen to that," replied Ben. "But still, it sounds weird, saying that about the city I live in."

"Far as I'm concerned," interjected Simon, "this isn't our home anymore."

"But-"

"Look around Ben!" snapped Simon, turning to face his companion. "This isn't our home anymore! It's nothing but a God-damned necropolis, full of these undead bastards!"

"But it was still our home!" replied Ben. "It can't be that easy to just cast that feeling off, can it?!"

"It is when your former friends are trying to rip your face off and eat it."

Ben just grumbled and turned away, trying not to get himself too stressed out due to current circumstances, even if Simon made a few logical observations. But as he turned away and looked back down the way they'd come, he froze on the spot when he saw something he didn't particularly want to.

"Oh crap…"

He saw the huge brutish beast striding down the road toward them, its face set in a demonic grin and a stinger missile launcher in its hand, its free hand flexing itself open and shut constantly. The monster breathed, and he saw a great cloud of hot breath escape from between its fang-like teeth. At that moment, Ben felt his stomach churning in fear.

Simon had noticed the same sight by now, and his face paled considerably. "Oh shit…"

"It followed us this far?!" asked Ben in a panicked manner, readying his weapon.

"Looks like it!" replied Simon, raising his M4 and firing a few bursts.

The rounds smacked into the monster's broad chest, drawing small squirts of blood from each impact, but it didn't even slow down, not even as it raised its missile launcher and readied a round into the chamber.

"Oh fuck-"

"Get down!" cried Ben, throwing himself into the air and tackling his companion into relative cover behind a crashed police cruiser. They hit the ground just as there was a 'whoosh' sound, and a dart-like object whistled past them at about torso-level. It flew straight and smacked straight into an abandoned store front, putting out all of the glass and causing an immense fireball to issue out from inside and blossom up into the sky.

"Geez, that was close!" cried Simon, even as he felt the heat from the new fire wash over his face.

"Yeah well, we gotta get out of here, now!" shouted Ben, dragging Simon to his feet. Standing up, he saw the hulking monster slowly approaching them once again, its stinger launcher lowered for the time being. The two cops quickly but carefully moved away from their position, towards the wrecked store with smoke billowing out of it, and around the nearby corner and down the street to put some distance between themselves and their pursuer. They made it about 50 feet before they looked over their shoulders to see the beast closing in, its face still locked in that same demented expression.

"It won't be easy to lose him!" seethed Ben through gritted teeth.

Simon was about to reply when he noticed a red drum barrel on the side of the road, close to the monster's current path. Chances were that drum was full of highly flammable material, and they could use it to their advantage if they acted quickly.

"Well let's blow him to hell then!" the S.W.A.T officer cried, indicating the oil drum he had just spied previously, and Ben took one look, before he figured out Simon's plan by himself and just nodded in approval. Helping his friend stand up, he took a step backwards, readying his shotgun just in case. Simon set his sights over the oil drum and readied himself, letting the monster take another couple of steps towards them, until it was right next to the oil drum.

_This should wipe that grin off of your face…_

He fired a single shot into the stationary drum.

BOOM!

A sudden explosion erupted, engulfing the one-eyed monster in the resulting fireball and nearly knocking the two humans off of their feet. Shielding their faces momentarily as the heat wave washed over, they then lowered their hands to see the flames clearing, revealing the huge beast lying face-first on the ground, flames licking around its body. It wasn't moving, which was a good thing, but Simon would've preferred to see it blown into bloody chunks instead.

"Damn, that was a rush!" he exclaimed instead.

"Crude thinking, but it got the job done," added Ben, standing up straight.

"Well what would you have suggested?" asked Simon, a note of annoyance in his voice. Ben was about to answer when a low growl reached their ears. They both turned to face the fallen monster.

"Oh, you can't be serious!" cried Ben, staring in disbelief.

The huge body shifted, and then began to push itself to its feet, the flames still licking around its chest and arms. A couple of painfully long seconds later, it was back on its feet, its towering stature now made even more intimidating due to the fires swirling around it. It threw its head back and let out an earth-shaking roar that threatened to deafen both of them into submission. Then it turned to glare at the two humans it had been chasing, the flesh around its single eye charred and blackened due to the flames, but it didn't seem to notice that detail as it started to approach the pair again.

"Oh God-damn it!" cried Simon. "Run!"

Ben didn't need to be told twice, as he turned and chased after the S.W.A.T officer down the street as fast as they could manage. Behind them came the flaming one-eyed monster, roaring in fury once again.

Dean's footsteps echoed off of the metal walkway he was currently crossing, following a linear path that would hopefully lead him to some kind of salvation, he hoped. He glanced at the walls every couple of seconds, warily eyeing the huge cobwebs that covered the brickwork. He also listened out for that familiar humming noise that he had previously heard before at the clock tower, just waiting for a giant arachnid to come out of hiding to attack when he least expected it. Other than his footsteps, the only other sounds were the running water below him and the sound of his own breathing, slow but fearful at the same time.

He stopped and re-adjusted the strap on his recently-acquired grenade launcher for what seemed like the hundredth time. Although the weapon would've given him some much-needed firepower, it still weighed a damn ton and was uncomfortable to carry. But still, he didn't intend to carry it for very long anyway.

Then he heard that sound. A low, incessant humming noise, from somewhere nearby.

Immediately, he stopped what he was doing and looked around, scanning the walls with his newly acquired weapon. A few seconds later, a large hairy form appeared from one of the thick web clusters on the wall just ahead of him. He spied the black and yellow colouration and the beady eyes which stared straight through him, filled with an evil intent.

Quickly, he raised the grenade launcher and pulled the trigger. There was a 'whumpf' sound, quickly followed by a grenade exiting the weapon barrel, a trail of smoke curling away behind it. The grenade round hit the spider right on the top of its body, between its abdomen and thorax.

BOOM!

There was a small explosion, and then the monster found itself showered in blazing napalm gel, its entire body immolated by red-hot flames, and it quickly lost its grip on the wall and plummeted into the raging water current below. The flames were instantly extinguished, small wisps of smoke rising up, but the damage had already been done, as it thrashed about twice and then lay completely still.

Dean stared down at the charred corpse, panting after feeling the brief heat wave washing over him from beforehand, before he looked down at the heavy weapon he held.

"Damn, this thing's got some balls!" he said to himself, rather impressed.

THUD!

The sound of something heavy landing on steel got his attention, and he looked up in time to see another of those huge spiders perched on the catwalk just ahead of him, probably drawn out by the death of its companion. It raised its front legs and let out a sort of cry, before it scuttled forward at surprising speed. Backing away in surprise, Dean readied his grenade launcher and fired it again, straight into the spider's front end. The round literally blew apart the monster's front end, obscene amounts of green blood and pus spraying onto everything in range. Dean grimaced in disgust, just before he heard more humming from somewhere behind him.

He spun around to see more huge spiders crawling along the walls, probably drawn out by the sounds of battle. He counted at least three of them before several more suddenly emerged from the network of webs closer to him, followed by yet another that appeared on the ceiling nearly directly above him, spraying out a mouthful of sickly green acid that he didn't want to get on him. He quickly hopped back at it landed on the grating just in front of him and evaporated almost instantaneously upon impact.

Cursing, he turned and started to run, hopping over the still-smouldering spider corpse that he'd just created and kept going, even as he saw more large, hairy forms appear on either side of him, their eyes filled with malicious hunger. He kept going, the grenade launcher pressed tight against his chest and his legs pumping to get him out of there as quickly as possible. The catwalk turned a few corners, and he prayed for some form of salvation to find him, as the humming sounds were descending on him from all sides, even above him, but he didn't dare look back, not once.

Finally, he turned one last corner and saw what could have been his most vivid dream up ahead: a lone steel door, built into the concrete wall just ahead of him, about 20 yards away…the final stretch. Biting down on his bottom lip, he pushed his body into an extra burst of speed, just as something heavy landed behind him and shrieked in anger as its prey had escaped its grasp. Within a couple of seconds he was at the door, grasping the handle with his sweaty palms and praying that it wouldn't be locked. Luckily for him, the handle gave way, and he wrenched the door open and fell through into the room beyond.

He landed on his front, lying there for about half a second, before he realised the situation he was in and scrambled around to face the open door he'd just fallen throw. Pushing himself onto his knees, he grabbed for the handle and slammed it shut, catching a glimpse of the hairy forms rapidly closing in from beyond. As he did, he then quickly clicked in the latch on the door, then throwing his body up against it for further support.

Something heavy slammed into the door and it shook in its frame, but Dean relented, his back firmly pressed up against the door. The door shook a couple more times, before there was shriek, and then a long, painful silence, save for Dean's panicked breaths. Several seconds passed, before he finally thought it was safe for him to take his weight off of the door.

That done, he buried his face in his hands and used all of his willpower to stop himself from bursting into tears. He couldn't put up with this much longer. He'd gotten this far, but half the time he'd been assisted by someone else, but now he was by himself, down in Raccoon City's dark underbelly, hunted by the monsters lurking down in the darkness. He'd managed by himself, of course, but how much longer could he keep that up for? He should just give up there and then. No-one was coming to rescue the city anyway, that much he had gathered. The National Guard had quarantined the city, but had made no attempt to rescue any survivors still left behind. Raccoon was a lost cause, it was obvious. And yet he was here, fighting for his life. Him, Kevin, David, Alyssa, and any other people still alive in the city, left behind to die by their own country.

Maybe he should've just given it up ages ago. That Beretta holstered at his waist started looking very tempting indeed. The thought of the cold steel barrel pressed up against his temple, before he pulled the trigger and ended all of this stress and pain once and for all: that seemed very pleasurable to him. Unknowingly, he felt his hand reaching down for the holster, undoing the latch across the top of the gun.

When his fingers brushed across the cold steel of the weapon, he had a very sudden realisation.

_What the hell am I thinking?_

Blowing his brains out? That was the coward's way out. And he didn't consider himself a coward.

_But you could've done more to save your colleagues…_

Stop it, he told himself. You can't do anything for them now, so concentrate on yourself. You've still got a family, remember? They're safe back home in Virginia. So you need to get yourself out of here so you can see them again.

It had been a long time since he'd seen his family, face-to-face. But it seemed like long enough had passed since that last time: it was time to stop worrying about the past and just get himself back there. Chances were that this whole mess would be all over Nation-wide news now, so they'd be worried sick about him. He'd have to escape and show them that he was still alive.

And there was something else as well. This virus, if it managed to get outside the city, could destroy the entire world in a matter of days due to the speed at which it spread. He couldn't let it reach his family and turn those into mindless zombies either: he'd rather die trying to prevent that. He needed to leave this city alive, for their sake, not just his.

Slowly, he forced himself to stand, shakily at first, but soon he found his solid footing again. Then he took a few deep breaths, recomposing himself.

_You can do this Dean, you know you can. Just stay strong and hopeful._

That done, he stooped down and retrieved the grenade launcher lying on the ground a short distance away from him. He slung it over his shoulders and looked about. He was stood in a plain concrete corridor, that stretched ahead of him for about 20 feet, ending in a dead end with a steel door set into it. Seeing nothing else of value in the immediate area, he approached the door and reached for the handle.

The door opened with little effort, opening out into a wide-open shaft like area. A small steel catwalk lead directly to a wide open platform in the rough centre of the room, suspended above another steel grated platform below, just above the running cascade of water he'd been following through the sewer tunnels. And even more webs covered the upper walls of the room, stretching across the pipes and brick, covering practically every inch of bare surface he could see. Whatever this room was for, he couldn't tell, but he didn't have time to figure it out either way.

Slowly crossing the catwalk so he stood upon the upper platform, he saw a ladder just across from him, leading down to the lower level. Hoping that it would take him to safety, he started to approach, his ears peeled for any unusual sounds nearby.

He heard a soft humming noise, and he quickly turned, his grenade launcher readied. He saw a spider crawl out of a clump of webs just across from him, moving in careful steps before it stopped in place and remained still, aside from its breathing movements of course. But it was still far away enough from him to pose no danger yet.

Figuring that he could avoid a fight, Dean started to move slowly away from the spider, but as he turned to face the ladder, he stopped in place as he spotted a second monster arachnid, perched on the wall directly opposite where he was stood. It was just perched there, apparently not noticed him yet, despite the fact he was stood about 10 feet away. Or maybe it hunted off of movement, so it'd only strike if he made any sudden movements. Carefully, he moved his foot a little, but as he did the creature moved as well, scuttling down the wall a little.

He kept still, holding his breath. Looked like the monster wasn't going to let him go that easily, and he would be having a fight on his hands after all. Slowly, he readied his grenade launcher and aimed it up towards the spider, which remained where it was, its fangs twitching in anticipation of a future kill. Then in one sudden motion, he bought the heavy weapon up and fired.

BOOM!

The spider erupted in a burst of red-hot napalm, falling from the wall and into the water below. Quickly as he had fired, Dean turned just as the second spider leapt and landed upon the platform, shaking it due to its bulk. But quickly as it had appeared, a grenade slammed into it and reduced it to a pile of burnt flesh and cinders. He coughed a little and covered his mouth as the smell of burnt flesh reached his nostrils.

"Well-done, that's the way to do it," he quipped to himself, just as he heard another sound behind him.

He turned to face a huge series of webs that had accumulated in the far corner of the room, a mass that looked about the size of a pick-up truck. He wasn't liking the look of this, he had to admit…

He started to back away from the huge web mass, just as dust started to fall from somewhere within and something started to move within the mass, descending down onto the same platform he was currently stood on. It was another of those spiders, but this one was immense in size, at least twice the size of the others, and its body was a dull grey in colour, with deep black stripes across its body as well. Its legs were almost as thick as Dean's body itself, and its eyes were at least as big as dinner plates. And it's fangs were the size of swords and dripping with translucent venom. It's overall bulk took up nearly a third of the overall platform area.

"Holy…shit…" he murmured in response.

The giant spider reared its front legs up, just as another two regular sized-spiders appeared from the huge web cluster and began to scuttle across the walls either side of them, apparently drawn out by the big grey one. Like it was their queen almost. But either way if he had to deal with the grey queen and all the small spiders he'd be in trouble, especially if the ammo for his grenade launcher ran out prematurely. So he'd have to make a run for it when it came to the crunch.

Deciding that he'd delayed events long enough; Dean raised his grenade launcher and fired off a round into the queen spider. The round saturated a small area of its flesh in napalm gel, and caused it to shriek out loud, but that was about it. Afterwards, the beast set its sight on Dean and suddenly launched itself across the platform at lightning speed.

"Shit!"

Dean hit the ground and rolled aside, just as the monster barrelled into where he'd just been stood a second beforehand. Coming up in a crouched position, Dean quickly fired the last napalm round in the chamber into the side of the spider, scolding a large portion of the side of its abdomen away. It shrieked again and shook its body, as Dean emptied the grenade launcher's chamber and unloaded the spent rounds, loading the fresh ones one at a time in a painfully slow process.

He'd loaded three of them just as he noticed a regular-sized spider landed upon the far corner of the platform and started to eye him up maliciously. Swearing silently, he loaded the last three rounds into the launcher as quickly as he could, just as the spider raised its legs and charged straight at him. He finally managed to click the weapon shut and raise it up as the beast was only about 10 feet away from him.

BOOM!

The round blew apart the front end of the spider in a shower of smoke and flame, and Dean quickly brought a hand up to his mouth to block out the stench of burnt flesh. But just as quickly he had to roll away again as green poison rained down on his position. He heard the hiss of it evaporating as it struck the steel grating, as he came up on the opposite side of the recent charred spider corpse, keeping it between him and the queen spider.

The latter reared its front legs up again, showing the green liquid that dripped off of its huge fangs, just before Dean sent a napalm grenade into the joint of one of the limbs, snapping the leg off as the flames burned straight through. The queen shrieked in agony and backed away, eventually crawling back up onto one of the surrounding walls of the room. It looked in pain, which wasn't surprising considering someone had been shooting it with a grenade launcher.

Remaining in its perch, the queen shrieked again, drawing out a few more regular-sized spiders that crawled out of the web clusters dotting the walls around him. Seemed like the queen had had enough for now. Dean just gritted his teeth and readied the grenade launcher as the first spider landed upon the platform with a loud clang.

He fired just as it landed, blowing it apart with ease, just as a second one landed a few feet away and shot a jet of poison towards him. He ducked and rolled to the side, before giving it a grenade to the face. He'd barely recovered from that attack though when he heard a loud thud behind him. He spun around, only to get caught off-guard as a spider launched itself at him and caught him in the stomach.

The wind knocked from him, Dean felt himself fall back, before he walked into the railing that surrounded the platform and felt himself falling over into thin air, with nothing to break his fall.

He seemed to free-fall for several seconds (but in reality was about half a second), before he landed shoulder-first on something hard, the grenade launcher flying out of his grasp. He coughed hard, amazed that he didn't break anything in the fall, before he tried to roll onto his side to get a better view of what was going on, but intense pain flared up, preventing him from doing so. He went back onto his back, giving him a good view of the underside of the platform above him. At least he hadn't landed in the water, otherwise he would be in trouble.

Another monstrous shriek woke him up from his pain-induced stupor though, and he quickly rolled to the side just as yet another gout of poison spittle passed through where he'd been lying a short while beforehand. He got to his feet and looked around for his grenade launcher, as another giant spider fell to the ground a short distance away. He slowly backed away from it, still searching for his elusive grenade launcher. But the monster was giving him no chance to, as it reared up and charged at him. Left with no choice, Dean reached behind him and drew his shotgun once again.

BOOM!

The first shot blew off one of the spider's legs, but didn't slow it down.

BOOM!

His next shot struck it on the body, and it flinched and stopped in place.

BOOM!

His final shot hit it on the top of its head, and it flipped over onto its back, thrashing around for a little while, blood leaking from its ruptured skull, before its legs curled in into itself and it remained still. Dean cursed at the dead monster, just as he spied the grenade launcher lying a few feet away and made a dash for it. He managed to pick it up and hold it in front of him, just as he heard another shriek from above him.

The queen spider suddenly reappeared, crawling over the edge of the upper platform so it was hanging on the underside of the platform, before it let go and it gracefully flipped over in mid-air and landed on its feet on Dean's current level, hard enough to shake the platform considerably. He stood his ground though, even as it raised its legs in a threatening manner. Then it opened its fangs and squirted out another jet of steaming poison towards him.

He ducked and rolled aside, the venom harmlessly passing through the grating and into the rushing water below, evaporating into nothing. He fired the grenade launcher again, hitting it in the side of the head and causing it to shriek violently, more violently that usual. He didn't let up though, firing another round into the side of its body and burning away even more of its skin into the bargain. It backed away, flailing its legs around, giving Dean a perfect opportunity to launch the last round in the chamber into its underbelly, scorching it badly and forcing it to back even further away from him. He took the time to load the final six rounds into the grenade launcher, wondering if it were enough to finish the damned thing off. The giant flea back at the subway tunnel was about a shard to put down, but he had help of other people back then, and here he was by himself. He should've been killed ages ago. But his will to live on had kept him going this far.

He changed position as the enraged queen spun on the spot to extinguish the flames still engulfing her body, before fixing her gaze upon Dean and spurting out another jet of poison in his direction. He side-stepped as the liquid sprayed off of the railing next to him, before he fired another grenade that landed on the top of the queen's body, igniting it in flame. The huge spider shrieked once again, before it charged at him again, its legs raised threateningly.

Steeling himself for the spider's assault, Dean waited until the last possible moment, before he dropped to the ground and rolled to the side, the spider instead ramming into the railing he was stood in front of instead, its immense bulk finding itself caught on the bent steel and unable to get free. Dean watched with a small amount of pity as it thrashed in an attempt to get free, but to no avail. Yet, he had no choice but to put the monster down, before it did the same to him. Standing in a position behind the monster, he aimed at its bulbous abdomen and fired.

The first round streaked straight into the spider's body, engulfing it in napalm and eliciting another shriek of agony, but Dean relented and fired two more rounds into the same spot, the sheer power of the rounds blowing a sizeable portion of its abdomen into bloody pieces and causing an obscene amount of blood to pour out through the platform into the water below. The giant beast flailed around a few more times, before it finally crashed to the ground, its body now fully spent of any fight it still had. Flames continued to lick around its body, charring any parts that hadn't been touched previously. The monster's grey and black striped body was now rapidly becoming a charcoaled mass, considering the effect the napalm gel had.

Dean fell into a seated position on the floor, taking in a big gulp of air, but quickly regretting it as he got a lungful of the smell of burnt flesh. He coughed roughly instead, spitting out a large glob of phlegm into the bargain. He backed away from the giant charred corpse, watching with some form of morbid fascination as it the fire started to spread across its entire body and along its remaining legs, eager to swallow up every last trace of the monster.

He finally offered himself a sigh of relief, letting the grenade launcher hang loose in his hands for a moment. He wiped down his sweaty brow and looked around, his sight settling on a door set into the wall off to his left. The sign above it just read 'Surface Access'.

"Good enough for me," he muttered, walking towards it. But then suddenly, a noise from above him caught his attention.

Another giant spider landed directly in front of him, poised to strike. His heart nearly jumped into his throat as he hopped back a short distance. At the same time, the creature hissed and opened its fangs wide, squirting out another stream of poison towards him.

Dean moved to the side as quickly as he could muster, twisting his body as he did so to avoid the deadly liquid. But despite his attempts, a large drop of poison landed on the right sleeve of his jacket, burning straight through the denim and onto his bare skin.

He screamed in agony as the deadly substance made contact. Only a small amount had made contact, but to him it felt like someone had driven a red-hot poker into his flesh. Dean managed to get enough of his drive back to fire a grenade into the offending spider's face, blowing it to pieces. He didn't stop to examine his handiwork as he fell to the ground and clutched at his right arm in agony. He stared at where the venom had made contact on his skin: the area was charred black in some places, and small holes pockmarked the skin as well.

Then he started to feel dizzy. His vision darkened somewhat and his head felt as though it were swimming. Quickly, he shook his head to clear his vision, and when that didn't work, he slapped himself with his left hand a couple of times, which worked, for the time being.

_I've been poisoned…_ he thought. _So how long have I got before I drop dead?_

He had to get somewhere safe; if he was caught out when he was in this state then he wouldn't stand a chance. He forced himself to stand, staggering and nearly falling as he did so, before he forced himself towards the surface access door, his vision still blurry and barely able to keep himself on his feet into the bargain.

Another shriek sounded somewhere behind him, followed by that dreaded humming sound coming closer and closer. He looked around behind him, only to see a black and yellow blur crawling down the wall across from him, before it made the leap onto the platform he was on, the sounds it were making sounded very muted to his fuddled senses. He kept himself going, his legs turning to jelly even as he reached for the door handle and pulled it open.

He fell through and slammed the door behind him, just as something heavy slammed onto it from the other side and shrieked in vain. He didn't pay much attention though as he suddenly pitched forward and landed face-first on the hard ground, bringing his hand up in time to stop himself from bashing his face off of the ground. He stared ahead down the corridor, his vision blurring into a muted blend of light and shadow. His body temperature was soaring; sweat bullets dripping down his forehead and his armpits rapidly turning damp as he dragged himself forward a short distance.

Dean rolled onto his front and gasped for breath, but it felt like a futile effort. His head felt as though it was going to explode, and he desperately wanted something to drink, so dry was his throat. He tried to force himself up, but he felt bound to the ground, and he quickly fell down again. He couldn't move very far, and he had no way to cure the poison: it looked as though this were the end of the line for him. Strange how his life would end in some godforsaken sewer underneath his former home city, and not back at home, surrounded by his family and loved ones. He allowed his head to fall to the side, accepting defeat.

The he saw his salvation a few inches away: a long pot plant, filled with small blue plants. Blue herbs, another natural flora of the Raccoon area. Unlike the green variety, this type were known to cure a number of natural poisons and toxins, either eaten raw or as a ground-up powder. He didn't really have time at the moment, so the latter method would be thrown out the window, so to speak.

Gathering the last of his strength he reached out and grabbed one of the plants, ripping it out of its bedding in one swift move and overturning the pot into the bargain. Bringing the plant close to his face, he used both of his hands to crush it down into a mouth-sized portion, before he went and shoved it straight into his mouth, no questions asked. He chewed the plant up for a few seconds, the taste of the sap and the dirt on the roots being far from pleasant, and then he finally swallowed it down, feeling the rough texture on his throat.

He continued to lie there for several seconds, his condition not changing at all. Dean was about ready to give up there and then, his eyes nearly fully closed. But then, he felt his temperature beginning to fall, and his vision was starting to clear. He could pick out the outline of the light bulb that hung above him, and of the cracks in the ceiling concrete. Slowly, he felt the heaviness in his body starting to fade away, and soon enough he found himself able to get up into a seated position. He sat there for a while, rubbing his face free of sweat and taking long gulps of air. Soon enough, his fever had gone right down and he felt as though he was ready to go 10 rounds with another van-sized spider. Slowly, he stood up and stretched.

"Well I'll never doubt those herbs again," he said aloud, looking down at the pot of blue plants next to his feet. Looking around, he stooped to collect the grenade launcher, and then continued along his way, searching for a way out of this damned place. 


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15: Overdue Reunion

**September 27****th**** 1249 hours**

An abandoned street in Southern Raccoon City, devoid of any form of life, human or otherwise. The wind blew through the empty place, rattling an empty drinks can as it rolled along the tarmac, dropping into the gutter and coming to a rest. Further down the road, several crows pecked at a desecrated body of a former civilian of Raccoon City, picking away at the remnants of flesh around its eyeballs and nose. A few seconds later, they became bored and took flight, circling in the smoke-choked sky a fewtimes before disappearing into the distance, searching for fresh meat.

Silence continued to reign, until a metallic scraping sound broke through the air. A manhole cover in the middle of the street started to turn in its place, before it was finally lifted out of its place by a pair of human arms and moved aside. A few long seconds later, a man in his mid-20's pulled himself out of the sewer entrance and rolled onto his back, staring up at the sky and taking in big gulps of air. His clothes and hair were filthy and covered in cobwebs and other substances.

_To think that the__ Raccoon City air could taste so sweet…_

Dean Travers finally opened his eyes and stared up at the sky. It was after midday and the sun was at its highest in the sky, but it was hard to tell right now, as clouds hung overhead, giving a very dismal outcast, combined with the black smoke from the many fires engulfing the city at present. But still, it was a nice change to see the daylight instead of being down in the darkness, with those giant arachnids.

That gave him another thought, as he quickly got to his feet and hauled the manhole cover back into place, just in case any of them had the intelligence to follow him to the surface. That done, he stood upright and looked around.

The street he was on was practically abandoned of any form of life, but the wrecked cars and destroyed property showed indication of the chaos engulfing the city. To one side of the street there was a large set of iron gates, and behind those was a large brick building. A sign hanging on the wall outside read 'Raccoon Sewage Treatment', and it seemed logical considering that he'd just left the sewer system. Inside the gates, he saw a few zombies loitering about, dressed in the garb of sewer maintenance workers, but none of them noticed him and continued to stand in place.

Looking around some more, there were some apartment buildings on the opposite side of the street, and to one end of the road, it had been completely blocked off by several lines of abandoned cars, their doors left wide open, most likely by the former owners as they fled from a zombie attack.

Looking the other way down the street, he saw a huge structure looming in the distance, several blocks away: The Raccoon Stadium. The same place he and the rest of the department would travel to, to watch the local footballs games. Those times seemed eons away now, but at least he had an idea of where he was.

"Getting there, slowly but surely," he said to himself, before he looked around again and sat himself down on an abandoned bench to do another supply check.

He still had several magazines left for his Beretta handgun, but his shotgun wasn't looking so well-stocked. The weapon was fully loaded, but he only had about 13 spare shells for it in his sidepack, a number he'd be going through in a very short time-span if he was unlucky. In addition, he still had about 3 hand grenades left from when he took that bandolier from the first deceased U.B.C.S member he had encountered the other day, along with that home-made flamethrower he'd been given by David hours before, and that had about half the can still left in it, so he wouldn't be totally defenceless if he ran out of traditional ammo. Finally, he still had a couple of vials of that special herb powder on him, along with half a can of first-aid spray, so he had some way to heal himself if needed. And at last, he had a few of those anti-viral pills, but he'd have to ration use of those.

He did have the grenade launcher from beforehand, but he'd exhausted the remaining ammo for it taking out a few more of those giant spiders back in the sewers, so he'd just discarded it behind him. It was too heavy to carry around anyway, and it seemed unlikely that he'd be finding any more ammo for it any time soon.

Deciding that he was all set, he stood himself up, Beretta at the ready, and walked away down the street in the direction of the stadium. He passed by a single corpse, its clothes shredded by what looked like teeth and claws, and most of the flesh around its face torn away with considerably violence.

He'd barely managed to get a few yards when he suddenly felt something grab a hold of his ankle and he nearly jumped out of his skin as he turned his head and looked down at a body that wasn't so dead after all. He looked down at the desecrated head, most of its skull visible, as it tried in vain to pull itself towards Dean's fleshy calf, it's teeth bared.

"Not today, bud," replied Dean, pulling his leg free, bringing it up, and stamping down on the skull with as much force as he could muster.

The apartment was empty, although the uneaten meals on the table, still on the plates it was served on, along with the TV set that was still on (although the screen only showed white static now) indicated that someone had lived here before. The rather ominous blood stains on the kitchen floor and bathroom door also showed that something more sinister had occurred here, although there weren't any signs of any bodies in the vicinity.

Ben Campbell sat with his back up against the wall of the hall, giving him a perfect view if anything were to enter from the main door. His shotgun was propped up on the floor, the barrel aimed towards the door, ready to blow the head off of anything that dared to enter. He was fixated on that door, everything else seemingly fading out of view and existence, so focused was he. It was scary, he had to admit, considering he never used to be this focused in the past. But he had to make the effort now, considering he was all alone.

He and Simon had managed to lose that one-eyed freak with the rocket launcher, but in doing so had wandered straight into an ambush set up by those ugly bug monsters. They had managed to gun several of them down, before Simon's M4 ran dry and he was subsequently pounced upon by at least two of the monsters. Ben still recalled the sound of claws slicing through his friend's armour and into his flesh, and the screams he made, which quickly gave way to a a morbid gurgling noise as blood started pouring out of his mouth. Ben seemed to be rooted to the spot as he watched the scene unfold, before his self-preservation instincts kicked in and he ran. He fled, like a coward, as Simon lay there dying. He kept running until he ended up outside this apartment building, and decided to take cover inside.

_First you failed Roger, and then you left Simon to die…who'll be next, I wonder?_

That sinister voice in his head had been pestering him an awful lot of late, but he had to ignore it if he could. But it wasn't easy.

_You're nothing but a filthy coward. Yes, a coward. I'd call you something else, but I can't think of a more appropriate word._

"Shut up," Ben seethed, not taking his gaze off of the front door.

_Don't deny it Ben, I'm not going anywhere._

Ben just continued to stare ahead, trying to ignore the sinister voice in his head. If he paid it any attention, it'd be a sure proof way of showing that he had gone insane.

_Stop ignoring me!_ hissed the evil voice in his ear.

"Shut up!" repeated Ben, his voice sounding very shaky at that point.

_I told you before, I'm not going anywhere._

"SHUT UP!" he screamed, thrashing his arms around like a child throwing a tantrum. He then fell to the floor and banged his hands against his head, in an attempt to get that damned voice to shut up. Soon, he broke down, letting the tears flow freely as he lay there, in a stranger's apartment, with nothing to accompany him aside from that damned voice.

_See? You are weak after all…_

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Dean's Beretta discharged, and the zombies fell to the ground with each shot fired.

His journey had been uneventful for the most part, but when he turned onto Frasier Street, he encountered several zombies wandering the road in a random fashion. He could have easily slipped by them, but he fancied testing his aim and he decided to take them out instead. He'd already shot down five of them as the last few approached within firing range. He hardly considered these freaks a threat anymore, considering that he'd fought and slain gigantic fleas and spiders in the near past.

He centred his sights over the face of an elderly lady, still in her night-gown, before he pulled the trigger, snapping her head back from the force of the bullet hitting her. He turned his aim on a teenage male with shaggy blonde hair that obscured most of his face, and blowing him away in a similar manner. He showed no remorse, even if these creatures were once fellow citizens of this city, but now he had to show no remorse towards them. He told himself he was doing them a favour, because being condemned to a life wandering the earth in search of human flesh to feast upon could be considered a fate worse than death.

He turned his aim to an African American male with long, blood-tattered dreadlocks, and sent him on his way with another perfect headshot. Following that, he put another shot into the head of a young woman in a plain shirt and jeans, before firing the final round in his current magazine into the face of a filthy-looking man dressed in a ragged jacket. The zombie keeled over backwards and landed with a wet smack on the ground. Dean stood amongst the multiple corpses, casually reloading his sidearm as though this was a regular day's work for him. He'd been in situations where he'd had to use his weapon in the past, but it was getting some serious use now.

He discarded the empty magazine and holstered his weapon again, taking a quick look around at the bodies surrounding him. 15 former civilians of this fair city, reduced to corpses (for the second time, and the last). The thought made him a bit sad, but he had no choice otherwise. There wasn't a cure for this virus.

…or was there? If Umbrella developed this then chances were that they had an antidote for it somewhere as well. So this whole mess could have been averted long before, but they couldn't exactly go public over the fact that they had developed a zombie-making virus. But it only made him hate Umbrella more. When he got out of here-

"First things first though," he said to himself, moving on. He walked over the bodies of his most recent kills, keeping an eye out for anything moving in the shadows.

He turned a corner and moved on down a new street, passing by a crashed car on the left side of the road.

BAM!

Something slammed up against the car's side window and Dean nearly jumped out of his skin as he drew his gun and aimed it at the offending window. A zombie pressed itself up against the inside of the window, its hands leaving blood smears as it pawed at the glass, its mouth opening and closing rapidly and leaving hot breath that clouded up the window from the inside. It beat at the window a few more times, but it held. Satisfied that he was in no immediate danger, Dean lowered his weapon and started to turn away.

"I'm getting too jumpy for my own good-"

As he turned, another zombie that had gotten frightfully close when he was distracted made a mad lunge for him. This one was a heavily-built male with arms like tree trunks, and wearing dirty jeans, a chequered shirt underneath a red body warmer, complete with a peaked cap on his head. A tatty-looking beard on his chin finished off his image, giving him the look of a big rig driver who had gone too long without a shave.

Dean reacted quickly though, dropping his handgun and bringing up his arms in time to grab either side of the zombie's head, holding it back as its teeth tried to snap his nose off. Keeping a strong grip on the monster, even as it flailed its arms in an attempt to get a hold of him, but he held his ground, his feet angled to keep his grip on the road surface. He gritted his teeth as he grabbed a hold of the zombie's hair and gave its head a quick twist.

CRACK!

The zombie's whole body twisted as Dean let go of its head and it fell to the ground limply. He stepped back a little, breathing heavy, as he stared at the crumpled body, which reminded him of a discarded marionette. Slowly, he bent down to retrieve his handgun from near his most recent kill, gripping it in his right hand as he stood up. Even as he did, he heard the sounds of dragging feet and hollow moans, and glanced up to see a few more zombies emerging from an alleyway across from him.

At the front of the group was a man in a camouflaged hunting jacket, the flesh on his bare arms and his face very badly burned to an almost charcoaled state. His blank face showed no concern for this state though, and the zombies following in his wake were faring no better: a young blonde woman had a kitchen knife still sticking out of her shoulder, while another young male only had one arm, the spot where his other arm should have been replaced by a ruptured bone just sticking out at an obtuse angle. Fighting these monsters in the dark was scary enough, but in the broad daylight Dean could pick out every little gory detail on their fetid bodies. It made his stomach uneasy just processing it all.

Not wishing for another fight, he started to move to the left, before breaking into a jog and disappearing down the street, leaving his pursuers behind.

_Come on man, talk to me. I'm right here for you…_

Ben still lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling above him, particularly focusing on the large damp stain that was covering a good amount of the ceiling area. That voice had been niggling at him fro some times, but he paid it no heed. If this were any normal day, if people knew he'd been arguing with a voice inside his head, he would've been laughed out of the building.

But this wasn't any normal day.

_Stop ignoring me!_

"You won't go away if I don't ignore you…sounds like I should ignore you some more."

_Oh come on Ben, don't talk like that. You know how long I've been back here, feeding off of your doubt and weaknesses…looks like this cluster fuck was__ the perfect oppourtunity for me._

"I'm not listening," replied Ben in a moderately loud tone.

_You are if you reply to me._

Ben said nothing as he sat upright and retrieved his shotgun, before getting to his feet and taking a look around the apartment.

_You always were a coward. Remember those times at High School?_

Ben just ignored the voice as he looked in the main bedroom, observing the bloody mess that the bedclothes had been left in, literally. Several pints of the red stuff stained the entire area of the top sheet, so someone had been killed here at some point. Bloody footprints happened to lead away from the side of the bed as well, leading towards the door. Ben glanced down to see he was stood over the remnants of the blood trail, which ended just at the front door. He hadn't noticed them before, due to being pre-occupied with arguing with a disembodied voice in his head. Speaking of which…

_Remember your last year? You walked straight past that kid who was getting the snot kicked out of him by the Farley brothers, and you did nothing to help him. You were a coward then…and you still are. _

He continued to pay it no heed, as he left the bedroom and examined the kitchen area to see if there was anything useful. He found nothing, just a load of empty cupboards and left-over food on the counter, where the rest of the apartment had little that could be useful to him.

_You could've helped that kid, but you didn't. Did you even know his name?_

"That was years ago!" protested Ben, his teeth gritted.

_Ah, paying attention to me now are you?_

Ben just bit his bottom lip and stared at the floor. "It doesn't matter if I reply or not, you're just a figment of my imagination."

_Am I? _asked the voice, positively dripping with venom this time.

Ben just said nothing, before heading for the door. He'd stayed here long enough, that much was sure. Despite the fact he might have been the only human left alive in Raccoon City, he had to keep going and make an effort to get out alive. And besides, staying indoors while a disembodied voice taunted him wouldn't have been healthy for his sanity (or what was left of it).

He opened the door and glanced outside, looking left and right down the corridor. It was empty in both directions, so he quickly stepped out and closed the door behind him, and heading down in the direction of the stairwell, remembering the same way he'd come in the first place.

He turned a corner and came face to face with yet another zombie. It was a fairly young female, still wearing her nightgown, which used to be a cream colour, but now it was practically drenched in red from the collar region down to the very bottom of the garment, possibly stemming from the serious bite wounds in her neck and left shoulder. It was even matted in her long, blonde hair. He guessed this was the former owner of the apartment he'd just left, now transformed into one of the undead.

Doing her a favour, he raised his Beretta and put a single bullet in between her eyes. She fell to the floor with a thud, even as Ben was already passing through the door into the stairwell and heading downwards, towards the exit. His footsteps echoed back up the stairwell even as his most recent victim bled out across the grey carpet underneath her.

Dean looked up at the imposing structure of the Raccoon Stadium before him, admiring the sheer size of the walls that seemed to touch the sky in some places. He was familiar with the place, as he would come here often to watch the local games with the rest of the R.P.D. But it looked like they wouldn't be doing that anymore. He lowered his gaze and looked through the turnstiles into the entrance area, complete with the merchandise stands, food stands and ticket collection booths. Among all that, several zombies dressed in the blue and white of the local team, the Raccoon Sharks, loitered, either just standing on the spot or feasting upon the corpses of those unlucky enough not to turn into zombies at the same time. Others were dressed in the black and red of another football team, one that he didn't recognise. Luckily, none of them noticed him standing there and watching.

Slowly, he turned away from the spectacle and started to walk away down the street again, the same way he'd been going for the last 10 minutes. Soon enough, he rounded the corner and found himself on Bachman Road, the same road that lead out into the city's southern outskirts. From there, he could possibly reach the barricades and get out of the city. But would they let him out when they saw that he wasn't infected? Or would they just turn away, not taking any risks at all? Or would they just shoot him on sight and not bother asking questions? He was nervous of this last eventuality, but he still had to try anyway.

He stopped in place when he saw the entrance to a subway station just to the left of his current position. He remembered how the subway train he and the other survivors were on hours beforehand was heading for this very station. So, chances were they had already made it here and could have left some clue behind as to where they would be going. A flicker of hope blossomed in his heart.

Quickly remembering the giant fleas that lurked in the subway station beforehand, he readied his shotgun and descended the steps two at a time.

Ben made his way down the street carefully, hugging the walls and alcoves on one side of the street, his shotgun scanning the rest of the road in case anything were to appear suddenly. He'd learned not to be careless after witnessing how those giant bug monsters had attacked them, back at the overturned van. All of those people were dead now, and he could do nothing more for them. It was just him left now.

_All alone in this damned place. How ever will you manage?_

"Not you again," hissed Ben, as he hurried from one alcove to the next one along, giving him a good view of the road from next to a wrecked car. He scanned the immediate area with his shotgun, and then moved on, crossing the road in a crouched stance and taking over by an empty bench.

_Oh yes, I never went away in the first place. I just got sick of you ignoring me, so I took a little break. _

"What the hell do you want then?" asked Ben in reply, his patience being sorely tried.

_Oh it's very simple Ben. I'm here to show you what you really are: a stinking coward. _

"I'm not a coward," he replied, getting to the end of his tether now.

_You aren't? Remember the R.P.D? You ran off and left your colleagues behind. You didn't even make an effort to try and get to them._

"There wasn't anything I could do," seethed Ben, doing anything to get this voice to shut the hell up.

_There wasn't? You can always do something about it. And remember the barricade? You left your friend to die, making no effort to help him out. He's been dead all this time, without you knowing. _

"No, Dean's alive somewhere, I'm sure of it!" protested Ben, the voice's comments getting under his skin now.

_You don't know that for sure though. Are you psychic?_

He ignored that last comment.

_Stop ignoring me! _hissed the voice in a venomous manner.

He kept ignoring it, as he rose up from behind the bench and started to cross the street in a crouched pose.

_Just as I thought, you're too cowardly to own up to your own weaknesses._

"Shut up!" urged Ben, seriously annoyed right now. He was in the middle of crossing the street at that point, but had stopped in place while he argued with the voice again. Not the best move for anyone trying to remain unseen in a city crawling with monsters.

_No! Not until you admit that you aren't perfect._

"Nobody's perfect, so what?" seethed Ben, rotating in place to make sure that nothing tried to sneak up on him while he was distracted.

_Yeah, yeah, we all have our flaws and so forth, _replied the voice in his head. _But you still have problems coming to terms with that, it seems._

"You don't know a damned thing about me!"

_I am inside your head, Benjamin. I know all your dirty secrets._

"SHUT UP!" Ben finally screamed, clamping his hands to either side of his head. He stood in the same stance for a few seconds, breathing hard, before he finally removed his hands and looked around.

The voice said nothing else. Looked as though it had gone away for now, thank Christ. He sighed in relief as he retrieved his shotgun and looked around again.

A line of zombies had suddenly appeared in the road ahead of him, and were gradually approaching his position.

"Great," he muttered, looking for a way around the monsters, just as he heard something that sounded like a high-pitched whistle or a whoosh of pressurised air. He also noticed a brief flash from somewhere behind the zombies as well.

"What?"

BOOM!

A car on one side of the street erupted into a ball of flame, that subsequently swallowed up another car and destroying that as well, the dual explosions blowing the zombies into bloody pieces into the bargain. He shielded himself from the bright heat wave at first, before he lowered his arms to see several trails of fire slowly working their way across the street, towards another crashed car. A few seconds later, that car exploded into another blossom of fire as its gas tank was heated up to dangerous levels. The new explosion towered towards the sky and caused Ben to shield his face once again. Once he was sure that everything was safe once again, he lowered his arms and looked towards the source of the fires. What the hell could have caused all this? He was about to get his answer.

He saw the outline of a shape coming towards him from through the fire and the heat, the large human outline that was holding something big in one of its hands. It only took him a few seconds to realise what it was, and it was enough to send him into a panic.

"Oh no…"

The subway station was abandoned, much like when he had come to that first one hours ago. There was a subway train stopped at the station though, and its inside was riddled with bullet holes and shot-up corpses of giant fleas, so this was definitely the same train he had been on previously with the other survivors. But there was no other sign of human life being there, not even a note being left behind telling him where they had gone, but he doubt any of them would have thought about leaving a clue, just making up their escape route as they went along.

He stood back out on the street, staring up at the sky and trying to figure out what to do next. Chances were the others were already miles ahead of him, and possibly even outside the city outside by now. At the very least, he could hope that they were still alive, and that he should only worry about himself now. He started to move on down the street, heading in the same direction he was moving in previously.

BOOM!

A loud explosion from somewhere fairly close by caused him to nearly jump right out of his skin, raising his shotgun in preparation for anything that could be coming his way.

"What was that?" he asked, to no-one in particular.

BOOM!

A second explosion tore through the air, nearly causing him to jump out of his skin again. Normally, sudden explosions wouldn't be unusual in this current situation, but two within the space of a few seconds was more than a little suspicious. Someone could be fighting off a monster attack for all he knew, and happened to be using heavy explosives to do so. Without anymore thought, he took off at a sprint.

Remembering where the explosions had come from, he rounded the corner and kept on running, the shotgun clutched tightly to his chest. Up ahead, he could see an orange glow bouncing off of the walls of an apartment building on the corner just ahead of him. Picking up his speed, he ran on and turned the corner, quickly coming to a halt.

The area just ahead of him had been engulfed in flames, with both wrecked cars and some building fronts being gradually swallowed in fire, smoke pouring into the sky, while in between all of this lay the bloody and charred body parts of several zombies. Looked as though someone had participated in a hell of a battle here, but where were they now?

He heard another familiar sound from nearby: the sound of gunfire. It sounded like a shotgun, he figured, and it was still fairly close. Locking onto the sound, Dean made his way past the flames and down towards an intersection that was just ahead of him. He looked to his right, and saw something that he didn't think he'd be seeing again in a long time.

It was standing about 50 yards away and was facing away from him, but he'd recognise it from anywhere. That huge stature, the black clothing, the stinger missile launcher held in one of its hands…

"Oh no," he said quietly. "Never thought I'd ever see you again!" The huge beast was walking away down the street from him, its attention focused upon the human being back-pedalling away from it, firing a shotgun into its torso repeatedly, but doing nothing to slow it down. Dean couldn't see their face from where he was stood, but he could tell that they were wearing a bloodied and torn R.P.D officer's uniform. So he wasn't the only one left alive in the city.

But then the mystery officer's weapon ran out, and he reached for one of his pockets, even as the beast continued to close in on him. Dean couldn't just stand by and watch this all happen, so quickly he ran a short distance into the street, before dropping into a crouched stance and bringing out his Beretta, since his shotgun would be useless at this distance. Carefully, he took a deep breath and centred his sights over the monster's broad back.

The Nemesis should have still been pursuing its main objective, but there had been no sign of any of its targets in recent times, so it allowed itself a little distraction. This pitiful human standing before it seemed like a good start. It was the same one that had tried to blow it up some time before, so that meant the bioweapon wouldn't be holding back during its pursuit of its victim. The human was shooting it in the chest repeatedly with its weapon, but the pain was hardly a cause of concern for the mighty B.O.W.

Then the target suddenly ran out of ammo for his weapon, and the B.O.W saw the look of fear etched upon the human's face as he tried to reload the gun while backing away at the same time. Seeing its chance, the Nemesis started to close in for the kill.

Suddenly, it felt small bursts of pain spreading through its back, and the B.O.W roared in pain, turning back the way it had come. Another human was crouched in the street about 50 yards away, firing at the monster with a small calibre weapon. The bullets were hardly of consequence to the Nemesis, but some of them were digging into its face and shoulder, where it was still recovering from a serious wound it had suffered previously.

"You like that?" the human shouted, reloading. "Come get some more!"

The Nemesis recognised the voice now. It was the same human that had attacked it previously, alongside several Umbrella-allied mercenaries, a skirmish that seemed so long ago now. That same human had attacked it with a shotgun and wounded it slightly, a wound that had healed long ago, but it had still angered the B.O.W. And now it had its chance to kill the pathetic weakling, crushing it like a ripe grape.

The beast raised its stinger missile launcher and prepared to fire off a rocket, but more bullets smacked into its face and shoulder. It grunted slightly as its aim was knocked off, the missile being fired from its chamber, but sailing over the human's head and flying off down the street instead of towards its intended victim. The rocket pinged off of the outside of a crashed bus and ricocheted off into the front of an apartment building, swallowing most of it in flames as bricks and masonry showered down all over the street. Undeterred, the Nemesis just reloaded its missile launcher and prepared to fire the last round it currently had in the weapon. It couldn't miss with this one.

Luckily, the human had ran out of the ammo in its current magazine, and the Nemesis almost took glee in the terrified look on its face. He cursed loudly, before he suddenly sprinted to the side of the street, heading for the protection of the corner of the nearby building. The Nemesis pulled the trigger on its weapon.

WHOOSH!

The rocket launched at high speed, just as the human threw himself into the air, flying behind the visible building corner and out of sight.

BOOM!

The rocket impacted against the surface of the building, reducing it to a hail of rubble as half of the whole structure threatened to come down upon the open road. The Nemesis growled in appreciation of its handiwork, throwing its head and arms back and letting off a roar of victory that threatened to deafen anyone within range.

From his cover behind a wrecked car, Ben watched as a lone stranger took on the huge monster in black, armed with only a handgun. He watched as the stranger stood his ground, causing the monster to miss with its first attack, before he ran out of ammo in his current magazine and made a mad dash for cover, just as a second rocket slammed into the corner of a nearby apartment building and lighting up the street as bricks and concrete shards rained down. He didn't see if the stranger had made it, or if he had been blown to pieces. Either way, he'd used the distraction to hide himself from the monster's evil gaze.

The monster threw its head back and roared loudly into the sky, threatening to deafen him into submission, before it cast off its stinger launcher, the weapon clattering away from its grasp, the ammo presumably spent. In that case, the monster had lost one of its major advantages, Ben thought, as he carefully reloaded his shotgun with fresh shells and cocked the weapon, trying to do it slowly so the sound wasn't so noticeable. He only had about 8 spare shells left for the weapon, not including the ones already loaded, so he'd have to make them all count.

The monster turned back towards his direction, and he quickly stuck his head down further. The beast turned its head this way and that, trying to find the prey that had eluded it. Its harsh breathing sent Ben's heartbeat soaring, but he'd have to control himself if he were going to avenge the death of this random man that had saved his life. The monster drew closer; its steps sounding like miniature earthquakes to his ears. Soon enough, the beast actually passed by his hiding place, its back still turned to him. He watched with intent as the beast's fingers curled themselves into fists and open again, its heavy breathing becoming less rapid.

He lined his shotgun up with the back of the monster's head and readied himself.

"Behind you shitface!"

The monster whirled about, and he got a glimpse of its insane grin.

BOOM!

The buckshot caught it in the face full-on. Blood sprayed off in all directions and the monster staggered back, clutching a hand to its face. Unfortunately, the monster's daemonic features remained intact. He followed after the monster, firing again and again into its body as it still tried to recover from the head shot it had suffered. His face was grim and set in stone. He was sick and tired of running from this monster: he was going to kill it here and now, even if he had to rip its throat out with his bare teeth.

Blood and purple fluid was spilt with every shot he unloaded into the monstrous being, but every wound he inflicted seemed to close itself up with unnatural speed. Since this thing was inhuman, it made sense that its healing abilities were beyond human capabilities as well, and it also made him feel that his shotgun was an inadequate weapon to use against it, but he didn't fancy using his handgun against it.

Suddenly, the beast lowered its hand, revealing its blood-splattered features, and it roared again, its voice rising in fury. And then it sprinted straight towards him, bringing one of its tree-trunk arms back behind it.

"Shit!"

He ducked instinctively, feeling the breeze of air as the blow passed harmlessly over its head. He hit the ground and rolled, coming up and turning to see the monster still recovering from its attempted clothesline, so he took the attempt to fire another round of buckshot into its broad back, but that just pissed it off even more, as it whirled around and charged towards him, roaring in fury.

He backed away in an attempt to keep his distance, but he only managed one more shot before the beast's huge fist uppercutted him, sending him flying to the ground, and his shotgun flying out of his grasp. He landed on something hard and rough, causing him to cry out in agony as it dug into the space between his shoulder blades. It was quickly forgotten though, as he saw his opponent striding towards him, raising one of its arms up in front of it, before there was a disgusting sound and something erupted from its wrist. It looked like a snake, albeit a snake coated in viscous, clear liquid and with a spear-like tip, coiling around the monster's wrist like a python waiting to strike.

Ben scuttled backwards on his rear, before pulling out his handgun and firing it into the beast's chest. Small bursts of blood erupted from where his shots made contact, but it made no difference, as its stride didn't slow down. That insane grin on its face seemed to be almost gleeful, relishing the chance of a kill. He didn't stand a chance against it.

"YYAARRGGHH!!"

There was a shouted battle cry, before Ben saw a human shape launch itself into the air, landing on the monster's shoulders and driving a fist-sized shard of broken glass into the space between its shoulder and neck. A torrent of blood and purple fluid sprayed into the air, as the monster roared in agony and started to thrash about in an attempt to remove the one clinging onto it as if its life depended upon it. The stranger continued to cling on, even as it looked as though he would be tossed aside like a rag doll. Ben just watched in amazement, and then joy, as the monster which was about to snuff his life out in an instant was trying to throw off a human half its size. But he still took the chance to scramble back a bit more, grabbing for his shotgun when he came across it suddenly.

Eventually, the monster managed to grab a hold of the stranger's shoulder and dragged him off in one downward motion, throwing him at its feet and causing him to skid across the ground until he was about level with where Ben was lying. The man lay there, unmoving for a couple of seconds, before he suddenly started to shift.

"You ok man?" inquired Ben, as the stranger started to turn towards him.

"Yeah, I'll live-" the other man started, but he soon shut up when he turned to face Ben fully.

Ben just stared in disbelief for a few seconds. He felt as though he were just seeing things at first, but at the same time he knew that it had to be real. The dark brown hair, the green eyes, that old denim jacket, the face covered in sweat and grime…

"…Dean?"

"Ben?" replied the other man finally. Surely a complete stranger wouldn't know his name off by heart.

"I'm not seeing things then?" asked Ben, still in a state of semi-shock.

"I hope not," replied Dean casually. "I spent hours trying to find your useless ass." Ben couldn't help but smirk, despite the seriousness of their situation.

Speaking of which-

"Graaaggghhh!"

They both looked up to see the monster reaching a hand up and tearing out the glass shard that was still stuck in its shoulder. Another gout of blood erupted into the air, but the monster ignored it as it closed its fist around the glass shard, reducing it to a shower of tiny sprinkles. It growled again, as it started to approach the two men in a slow, deliberate manner.

"Look, let's deal with this fucker first," said Dean, drawing his shotgun and adopting a crouched pose, as Ben did the same with his own weapon. "You got enough ammo?"

"No," replied Ben flatly, handling his scant few spare shotgun shells as he reloaded the weapon. "What about you?"

"Not really," sighed Dean, bringing a handful of shells out of his pocket and passing them to his partner. "Here, use them wisely."

"Thanks man," said Ben, reloading his weapon. "But you got enough for yourself?"

"I'll be fine," replied Dean, before he showed off the hand grenades he still had. "These should help out a bit."

"Where'd you get those?" asked Ben, dumbfounded, but he wouldn't get an answer just yet.

"GRRAARRGGHH!!"

They both rolled away as a chunk of concrete landed where they had just been crouched and shattered into dozens of smaller pieces. The monster in black just growled again as it grabbed another boulder-sized lump of loose concrete and lifted it above its head with both hands, preparing to toss it at its prey. Instinctively, both men raised their shotguns and opened fire. The dual shots struck the monster in the torso, causing it to stumble and lose its grip on the concrete chunk. The boulder instead fell and shattered on top of the monster's head, breaking it into smaller chunks. Ben couldn't help but smirk at the comical sight.

The beast groaned and fell to its hands and knees, visibly shaken by the blow to the head. Seizing their chance, Ben and Dean started to pour more buckshot into the monster's body, spilling gallons of blood, but its wounds were still closing up with alarming speed. It looked as though they wouldn't be able to kill the damned thing at all, unless they had a rocket launcher or something similar.

Then once again, the monster recovered, slamming its fists into the tarmac at its feet, hard enough to shatter it, before it got to its feet and charged straight towards Dean, roaring in anger and hatred.

"Oh shit!" cursed Dean, as he backed away as quickly as he could, still firing his shotgun into its torso, but doing little to slow it down. Ben saw his partner's predicament and made a move to do something, but what could he do? Just then, he saw a brick with a jagged edge lying at his feet, and a thought struck him. Back at high school, he was the star player on the school football team, and he could toss a ball as far as half the length of the pitch, with deadly accuracy as well. It had been a while since he'd last been in a football game, but it was time to see if his skills still held up to scrutiny.

He ducked down, scooped up the brick in one hand, brought it back behind his head, and tossed it as hard as he could muster. The object sailed through the air, as though it were guided by the hand of God himself.

The brick smacked into the side of the one-eyed monster's head, knocking it to the side and causing it to stumble slightly and eventually come to a halt, about 10 feet away from its intended target. Dean just looked surprised, until he saw the brick lying on the ground a short distance away, and started to smirk. "Nice thinking man!" he shouted to Ben as he took the chance to back away and reload.

Ben just smiled a little at his success, until he realised that the monster in black was charging towards him, flexing its right hand in anticipation of the kill. His face turned to a look of terror as he fumbled for his shotgun. He only managed to get off one shot before the beast swung its fist, striking him in the face and knocking him sideways into a wrecked car.

"Ben!" he heard Dean cry, followed by rapid footsteps approaching him.

Dean made a dash to save his friend, but the one eyed beast swung its other fist backwards, striking him in the chest and ploughing him backwards off of his feet.

Ben groaned, his face feeling very sore and puffy, and tried to roll over onto his back, but a massive fist with cold, clammy fingers grabbed him by the neck, closing off his air supply instantly. He felt himself being lifted off of the ground, until he was floating above an ugly face with only one eye and a demonic grin. The beast stared up at him, its face unmoving, but he guessed it was probably taking great pleasure in the prospect of popping his head off like a cherry. He tried to prise the fingers away with his own hands, but it felt like a meaningless effort, since it felt like a vice had been applied around his windpipe. So instead he took to kicking his legs like crazy against the beast's body and punching at the huge arm that held him, but his puny blows had no effect.

It was a titanic struggle to keep himself conscious, but he saw as the monster raised its right hand up to near his head height, and watched as a familiar snake-like tendril emerged from a hole in the creature's wrist, making a sickening 'pop' sound as it appeared. It waved about in the air a few times, before it straightened up, aiming towards his face. That's when it hit him.

_That thing's going to lance me through the face…oh God, I need to get out of this now!_

He kicked like mad again, but to no avail. He thought he saw a twinkle in the monster's single eyes, which would probably enjoy putting a hole through his face at any rate.

"Ben! Think fast!"

That familiar voice caught his attention, and he glanced up to see something came spiralling through the air towards him. Almost on autopilot, his left hand reached out and snatched it out of mid-air. It looked like an aerosol can with a lighter taped to the nozzle, but then he realised that it was a home-made flamethrower. Wherever Dean got that from, it would still be useful to him right now. Quickly, he pushed the nozzle towards the face of his attacker and tried to turn his face away.

"Suck on this, you one-eyed menace!"

WHOOSH!

A gout of flame engulfed the monster's face and right arm, causing it to roar in agony and drop its intended victim to the ground. Ben landed hard on his rear, coughing and holding his crushed windpipe for a few seconds, before he had the thought of mind to pull himself away from the monster a little more, as it still stood over him, trying to extinguish the flames lighting its face. Ben felt like punishing the damned thing a little more though, as he depressed the nozzle on his weapon and doused it in even more flames, being sure to spray over every available area of exposed skin on the damned thing's face as he could. It was still roaring in agony as it thrashed about, its massive arms flying around as though they had a mind of their own.

Finally, the aerosol can spluttered and gave out, its contents fully spent, but Ben had already gotten his revenge on the one-eyed freak before him, so he was happy for now, tossing the empty can aside carelessly. Just then, he suddenly felt an arm grab his own and he was wrenched about to face Dean's determined face.

"Come on, let's get the hell out of here!" his friend shouted, showing him a pair of hand grenades he was holding in his left hand, before passing one to him to use.

"That's what I'm talking about!" smirked Ben, as the two of them prepared to throw the explosive weapons.

"Let's do it on three," gasped Dean, getting a good hold of the pin on his grenade. "One…two…three!"

On the three, both men ripped out the pins on the grenades they were holding, before lobbing them towards the still-aflame monster standing about 20 yards away from them, before turning and sprinting away as fast as their legs could manage. They rounded a corner and had made it half way down a sheltered alleyway before they heard the explosions going off behind them.

BA-BOOM!

The dual explosions swallowed up the monster's form and a nearby car, causing its gas tank to be overheated, and that exploded too, swallowing a good portion of the sidewalk in a shower of flame and raining sparks and shattering the windows on one side of the street due to the explosive shockwave.

The once peaceful street was beginning to resemble a war zone more and more, what with the fires that were gradually spreading across the entire length of the road and the piles of masonry lying amongst the ruined remains of a former apartment building, its windows smashed out and its lobby scorched by flame damage. And this was all thanks to a pair of human survivors recklessly using hand grenades in the near past in an attempt to defeat a superior opponent.

A low growling started to emanate through the soft crackling of the flames.

"Graagghh…"

A huge form suddenly strode out of the fire, its black clothing and large portions of its exposed face badly charred by the intense heat. It would take more than a load of fire and some explosions to stop the Nemesis though: like other variants of the 'Tyrant' B.O.W class, its healing properties were beyond that of other Umbrella-developed B.O.W's. Unlike other Tyrants though, the Nemesis' healing abilities were much more advanced, to the point where it could even survive explosions that could flatten an entire city block, at the expense of its physical strength though.

The B.O.W glared down at its right hand, badly charred itself, even to the sake tendril that was the B.O.W's signature method of killing its victims. The lance-like object hung limply from the between the folds of skin on the monster's wrist, shrivelled like a prune. The Nemesis closed its hand into a fist and the charred tendril snapped off and fell to the scorched tarmac. It would only take a few minutes for the B.O.W to grow a new one anyways. As it opened its hand again, the Nemesis felt something stirring beneath its skin, and seconds later it started to heal itself, the areas where muscle and bone had been left exposed becoming covered once more in fresh skin, while the areas of skin that were once charred started to clear up, and soon enough the monster had a new layer of deathly pale flesh covering its huge body.

Its healing process completed, the Nemesis threw back its head and let out yet another roar of frustration, one that threatened to bring down the other buildings in the vicinity. Its frustration taken out, the monster started to walk in the direction its soon-to-be victims had been heading in. It was going to crush them for certain now, after they'd managed to evade death and try to blow it to pieces.

Suddenly, it stopped in place and turned to face the other direction. It had picked up another familiar scent in the air, one that was a considerable distance away, but the Nemesis' enhanced senses picked it up from even here. It was the scent of a S.T.A.R.S member, one of its original targets.

"S.T.A.R.S…" growled the monster, taking a tentative step in the direction of the scent. Although the B.O.W had an overwhelming desire to track down the two humans that had tried to blow it to pieces, its mission directive overrode every other instinct the monster had. Another fail-safe implemented by Umbrella's researchers, lest it develop a mind of its own.

"S.T.A.R.S," the monster repeating, quickening its stride, until it was finally sprinting at full speed through the streets of Raccoon City. The Nemesis lived only for completing its mission, and it would follow its directive to the death, if needed.

"S.T.A.R.S!" it bellowed, the haunting cry echoing down the empty city streets.

They had kept running for at least 10 minutes, until they finally came to a halt at an empty bus stop on another empty street, panting for breath, half bent-over.

"Good thing I came when I did," gasped Dean, straightening up. He turned to face his friend, who was just stood there, staring at him as though he'd seen a ghost. "What is it?" he asked, looking confused.

Slowly, Ben took a step forward and reached out a hand…before grabbing Dean's cheek and giving it a hard pinch.

"Ow!" shouted Dean, stepping back and holding his sore face. "What the hell was that for?!"

"I had to check that I wasn't seeing things," explained Ben simply, and Dean understood instantly. Going for so long without knowing if his friend were dead or alive, it made sense that he'd think he'd gone mad and were seeing things. He smiled a little as he looked his friend up and down. His spiky blonde hair was matted with sweat and blood, while his skin was covered in grime and dried blood, while his R.P.D uniform was tattered and practically falling apart in many places, the armpits of the white shirt damp with sweat from constant exertion. He looked a mess, but then again he guessed he wasn't so clean-looking either.

"That's fine," he said finally. "Good to see you're not a zombie buffet instead."

"Well, I can't help it if I look that damned appetising to those freaks," joked Ben, lightening the mood like he usually did. "Hell, you'd be too damn chewy for them."

"And what the hell's that supposed to mean?" asked Dean, in mock offence. Both of them laughed for a while, before they quietened down and just stared at one another for what seemed like an age.

Finally, the both stepped forward at the same time and caught each other in a firm hug.

"You have no idea how glad I am to see you," whispered Ben, sounding as though he were about to cry.

"Me too old buddy, me too," replied Dean with a similar vocal tone, giving his friend a firm pat on the back. "But I always knew you'd get through a shit storm like this, right?"

"Ha, you know me," replied Ben, "me, the luckiest son-of-a-bitch in the world."

There was an awkward silence.

"Uh, can we stop hugging now?" suggested Ben. "I feel a bit silly."

"I can't help it if I missed you," joked Dean as they both let go and took a step away from one another.

"But Dean, where the hell have you been?" asked Ben. "When we left the station, I prayed that you stayed away."

"You'd better take a seat," sighed Dean, indicating towards a nearby bench.

For the next 10 minutes, Dean told Ben of his exploits in the ruined city, from when he first returned to the R.P.D, to his encounter with the U.B.C.S members, the events within the zoo, the clock tower and the subway tunnel, all the way up to his most recent encounters in the sewer system with the huge spiders, and finally about the time when he came to his partner's rescue just previously. Ben was largely silent throughout, but he'd jump in when he heard something highly alarming.

"Sounds like you've been through a lot," said Ben simply when Dean had finished his story. "And you say some virus is responsible for all this?" He waved his hand over the destruction that was nearby.

"Apparantly," Dean replied, "but other than that I don't know much else."

"Well either way it explains why everyone was turning into zombies so quickly," added Ben. "And some other things. But why would Umbrella be developing something that dangerous? And what about these U.B.C.S mercenaries? Why are they here?"

"Beats me why Umbrella would develop a virus like that, unless it was meant to be used as some kind of weapon," theorised Dean. "And as for the mercenaries, they said they're here to extract the civilians…but somehow I think there's another reason."

"Geez, so much damned mystery," observed Ben. "But I don't care about all that, I just want to get the hell out of here."

"Amen to that," replied Dean, looking around. "But what happened at the R.P.D? You managed to get out in one piece, obviously."

"Well yeah," affirmed Ben, wincing slightly. "But we ended up leaving Marvin and Neil behind, which I didn't enjoy very much. But they locked the doors behind us, so we couldn't get through anyways."

"I doubt it would've made much of a difference," Dean mentioned. "Neil's dead anyways."

"What?!" half-shouted Ben, his face showing great surprise. "What happened to him?"

"It was the Chief," explained Dean uncomfortably. "The Chief shot him."

"Chief Irons?!" exclaimed Ben. "I always knew he had a screw loose."

"You can say that again," scoffed Dean. "He nearly shot me as well. Lucky I managed to get away at all. And he was ranting about Umbrella betraying the city or something like that."

"So he _was _on the take then?" ventured Ben. "Sleazy bastard…"

"Look, there's a good chance he's already dead now," added Dean. "The zombies were pouring into that place when I left. And if so, then he got what was coming to him. But we have to worry about ourselves now."

"Fair point," mused Ben. "But I was lucky to make it this far. We were doing fine, then the van crashed and we were attacked by those monstrous bugs…Simon, Max, Roger…they're all dead, because of me…"

"Hey, don't start talking like that," snapped Dean, getting his friend's attention. "You start dwelling on the past, you're only going to lose focus. We have to survive, no, we _need _to survive this living hell. For the sake of everyone at the R.P.D, and the people of Raccoon…or rather what's left of them."

Ben stared at the ground for several seconds, before he bit his lip and finally looked at Dean. "I get what you're saying…but I still feel like I could have done more to help the others out, rather than just leaving them behind."

"Hey, and you think I don't feel the same way?" asked Dean, eyebrow raised. "If I could, I'd save every one of them from a gruesome fate, but that's not possible now. And I'm sure they'd all want us to make the bastards responsible for all of this pay for what they've done."

"Umbrella?" asked Ben. "But how the hell would we go about making them pay? If it weren't for them, medical science would still be stuck in the past. How'd we convince the world that they did this?" He finished that last statement by spreading his arms towards the general devastation that was all around them. Dean looked around and bit his lip, and shaking his head a little before he replied.

"I don't know about that part, but let's just get out of here first, allright?" Dean suggested.

"That's fine by me," replied Ben, "we shouldn't be far from the south outskirts of the city. We should be able to make it if we keep at a steady pace."

"Sounds good to me," replied Dean. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah," answered Ben, starting to stand up, but then he faltered slightly and sank back down, visibly wincing as he did so. "Actually, I don't think I am yet. Feels like someone jabbed an ice pick in my back."

"Here, let me take a look," Dean said with a concerned look about him, insisting that Ben take a seat. That done, he circled round behind his friend, taking a look at the spot between his shoulder blades. There was something there, apparently stuck into the flesh, fresh blood staining the shirt material directly around the wound. "Hold on, this might sting a little…"

In one fluid motion, he grabbed the object and ripped it out of his friend's body, creating the sound of flesh being torn, and of blood spurting out of the wound.

"Aah!" cried Ben, reaching a hand around to cover the new wound. "So much for stinging a little!" he seethed, before he brought his hand back around and saw the blood stain across his fingers. "Oh crap…"

"Hold still, I'll put something on that," advised Dean, as he reached into his side pack and bought out the half-empty vial of green herb powder he still had on him.

"I knew I landed on something back there," groaned Ben. "Guess I didn't pay much attention directly afterwards due to the adrenaline rush…ouch!"

He cursed as the herb powder made contact with the open wound and started fizzing as it worked its magic. He was sorely tempted to give it a good scratch, but he managed to resist his urges, until the fizzing had ended and the wound had closed itself up as best it could, and the pain had faded away. But then, Dean had come around to stand in front of him, and showed him a twisted shard of broken metal, with one of its sharp corners coated in wet blood: his blood.

"That's something no-one wants stuck in them," he noted, taking the object from his friend and looking at it for a few seconds, before he tossed it aside, where it bounced off of the tarmac a few times and rolled away into a shadowed alleyway.

"You ok to go?" asked Dean, standing up and drawing his sidearm.

"Ready as I'll ever be," replied Ben, standing himself up and rolling his shoulders a few times, making sure that his recent wound didn't hurt too much. "Let's get going."

And with that, the two friends turned and walked away down the street.

They walked down another abandoned street, their weapons drawn and in their hands and their eyes and ears searching for danger. Neither of them planned on going through the narrow alleyways, lest they get attacked by giant bug monsters with hooked limbs or anything else that wasn't a zombie. The signs hanging above them identified this area as 'Finch Street', a road that contained most of the night clubs in Raccoon City. They were still there, all garish neon signs, graffiti-ridden walls, and roped-off waiting lines, all abandoned now. There were even a couple of strip clubs, but neither of them fancied going inside, lest they see an almost-naked female zombie. No-one deserved to be subjected to that horrific sight.

They walked in silence, partly because they wanted to stay alert, and partly because neither could think of anything to talk about. This place seemed to be sucking the life out of anyone still trapped within its boundaries. They needed to get out of it soon, lest they be reduced to zombie-like states as well.

After several more yards, Ben stopped dead and stared at an empty café on the corner of the street where it joined a junction. Dean noticed the fact his friend wasn't keeping pace with him and turned back to see what was going on.

"What's the matter?" he asked, walking up so he was standing next to Ben.

"That's the same café we always went to after the football games," Ben observed. Dean looked confused at first, but then he took another look at the building and realised that his friend was right. 'Renee's', it was called, and it was a cosy enough place, that made coffee that was to die for (if you believed what Jean Harlow said).

"It seems years ago since we did that though," Ben added, his voice showing a hint of nostalgia. "You remember that waitress who worked there? The cute brunette?"

"Who doesn't?" replied Dean. Every time they went there, Ben would try to chat that waitress up, and she'd always shoot him down, but in a playful manner. He was convinced that she'd agree to go on a date with him at some point in the near future. Looked like that wouldn't be happening now.

"Think she's dead as well?" Ben inquired. Dean didn't say anything at first, he just looked past Ben towards the café. The place looked completely empty, although many of the windows were smashed in and the tables and chairs had been thrown about with little care. He thought he also saw blood upon some of the furnishings. He bit his lip before speaking.

"Honestly?" he said. "Who knows anymore? She may as well be."

Ben just continued staring for a while, before he took a deep breath and started to turn away. "Oh well. She'd never go for a guy like me anyways." He started to walk away, but Dean just continued staring at the broken café, wondering if his friend would be able to manage getting through anything else Raccoon City had to throw at them. But what about himself? He had seriously considered suicide back down in the sewers, but he'd managed to rein himself back in before he did anything stupid. But what if those feelings came back? But he was with Ben now, so chances were the company would stop him considering the idea again.

He shook his head clear and hurried after Ben, who had come to a halt in the middle of the junction.

"Now which way?" he asked, looking every way, then at Dean, waiting for an answer. Dean glanced in every available direction they could take: to the south, the road had been blocked off by another multi-car pileup, causing a truck to have overturned and crushing several cars into the bargain. They couldn't go that way, so he glanced left and right instead. Both roads weren't blocked, but he could see zombies were occupying both routes. There weren't a huge number of them, but they had noticed the two humans and were beginning to approach slowly.

"Let's try this way," announced Dean, turning to his left. "There seems to be less zombies this way."

"Fine by me," replied Ben, not debating at once. He was already moving in that direction by the time Dean had raised his own weapon and started following after him. He started to wonder if Ben was feeling 100% inside that head of his.

They moved down the street in a spread-out formation, taking one side of the street each. As the zombies started to move towards them and pick up speed, they found themselves put down with precise shots to the head, one bullet each. It was almost scary how efficient the two were being in gunning down the undead monsters as they drew close.

Ben drew a bead on the face of a tall man in a faded blue sweatshirt, felling him with a shot through the left eye, before switching his aim to a young girl dressed in the uniform of the local Raccoon High School. He hesitated briefly as he stared at her young face, ravaged by the virus that was the cause of this whole mess, before he dropped her with a single shot as well. He walked on, past the bodies of his most recent victims, firing at a couple more zombies before him.

Dean stepped over the corpse of a fallen teenager, before he fired into the head of a male zombie standing just beyond him. As that one hit the floor, he set his sights on a hugely obese male zombie that came towards him, its flesh practically sloughing off of its fetid body as it moved. Grimacing, he shot it through the head, and it fell to the ground with a wet _smack _sound. A few minutes later, both of them had taken out the zombies in the immediate vicinity, and they were stood near another fork in the street. Dean noticed that Ben seemed to shaking a little as he reloaded his Beretta.

"Dude, you OK?" he asked, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Y-yeah," managed Ben, looking at Dean with tired eyes. "Just need to keep telling myself that they're monsters, and not people." Dean understood immediately what he was on about, and he just gave a small nod.

"Come on, let's keep going," he added, before both of them moved on in a southerly direction.

"Woah, hold up."

Ten minutes had passed since they had had their little skirmish with the zombies, and now they were on 'Burrows Avenue', another small street in the south of the city, and for a change, one that hadn't been blocked off by a traffic pile-up.

"What is it?" asked Dean, turning to face his friend. Then his attention was turned to the large store Ben was staring at to the right of their position. It was 'Leonard's', a clothing store, and a very popular chain across the country. "What's on your mind?" Dean then asked, moving towards Ben.

"What about we get replacements?" offered Ben, looking down at his filthy and tattered uniform. "We hardly look a picture as we are."

"Sounds like an idea," offered Dean, looking at his own blood-splattered clothes. "It'd be no big deal for me to get rid of these old clothes." Personally, he wanted to burn them in a furnace if he could, but even that wouldn't get rid of the combined stench of blood, sweat and grime from his skin. He'd kill for a hot shower right about now. 

Tentatively, they both approached the mains tore doors, which had been left wide open. Just beyond them, the store entrance looked clear, but it didn't hurt to be too careful. They both advanced carefully, their weapons drawn and readied, stepping inside the store entrance as the automatic doors opened upon their approach.

They'd been to this store a few times in the past, mainly to special seasonal sales: you could get stuff here for half the price of where you found them at other stores. The wood-panelled floor was intersected with lines of purple carpets that acted as a road map to the various sections in the store. The left-hand side of the store was the women's department, the men's department was to the right, and the home section was at the very back of the store, but right now they were only interested in the men's section. They moved to do sweep of the initial entrance area, as the doors automatically slid shut behind them.

Ben scanned the nearby clothing racks with his Beretta, searching for danger. From first glance, it looked as though this place had been untouched by the chaos: there wasn't any blood splattered on anything, there were no corpses lying in the aisles, and most importantly, no zombies trying to tear their throats out on sight. But many of the clothing racks had been knocked over, the clothes strewn about recklessly, probably by a scrum of customers trying to get the hell out.

Dean carefully approached the service counter to the right of the entrance, peering over to see if anyone or anything was lying on the floor on the other side. There wasn't, and no trace of any violence or otherwise either. The tills had been left wide open in most cases though, and they were still full of cash.

"Place is empty," the blonde-haired man observed.

"Yeah," added Dean. "Looks like no-one got killed though, so that's a good thing I suppose."

"Won't make much difference if most of the population's been zombified though," muttered Ben in a dark manner. Dean just ignored it as he started to walk down the main aisle, turning off at the men's section.

He passed by a table loaded up with pairs of jeans, and he stopped at a pile at the end of the row, pulling them off one by one and checking the sizes. When he found a pair that was his size, he slung them over his arm and let Ben take his pick. They both opted for the dark faded denim type, a change from the usual blue colour they always used to wear. Next, they moved onto the shirt racks, where Dean opted for a dark blue shirt with the image of a pair of wings on the front, while Ben chose a plain white shirt that was devoid of any designs or graphics. They moved on to the other areas in a similar manner, choosing a pair of underwear and a pair of socks each, before making a bee-line for the changing rooms near the back of the section.

"We should take turns in changing and keeping a look out," suggested Ben, looking back towards the store entrance. "Just in case."

"Good thinking, Sherlock," smirked Dean dropping his pile of clothes he had chosen from the racks on the floor by his feet. "Here, you go first."

"You sure?"

"Positive," replied Dean. "Not get to it, slow-poke." Ben just muttered a reply under his breath as he turned around and stepped into one of the small changing rooms, pulling the curtain across. He looked back towards the door, only able to see the top half of it over the clothing racks due to the awkward position he was stood in. He moved to the side a little, so he had a batter angle on the door from where he was stood. Behind him, he could hear Ben getting himself undressed and redressed again, in his new duds. About a minute later, he heard the curtain being pulled open, and he looked back to see Ben step out of the changing room, looking somewhat cleaner in his new clothes, but his face was still covered in grime and dried blood.

"Every heard of washing with soap, you dirty bastard?" joked Dean, prompting Ben to look in a nearby mirror and pull an annoyed face.

"The bathroom's just over there," Ben said pointing to the familiar sign just next to a passage a short distance away. "Hold on while I get myself cleaned up, allright?"

"Yeah, sure," Dean replied, as Ben was already making his way in that direction. He disappeared around the corner, and Dean went back to watching the front door. Seconds later, he heard the sounds of a tap being turned on and water flowing into a sink basin.

Dean felt his eyes starting to close, and he quickly shook his head to try and keep himself awake. He'd gone for a while without a proper rest, but Ben had probably gone even longer. They'd need to have a long rest-up at some point, and figured it'd be best to tell Ben that when he was done in the bathroom.

Suddenly, the main doors slid open and he heard at least two pair of feet entering the store. He ducked down behind one of the clothes racks quickly, hoping he hadn't been spotted. The footsteps could be heard near to the entrance still, and they sounded too regular to belong to a zombie, but he still didn't want to take anymore chances, lest some trigger-happy survivor think he were a zombie and blow his head off.

"Think we lost 'em?" asked an unfamiliar voice, with a trace of a Latino accent. So they definitely weren't zombies, in that case.

"We should have, those fuckers don't exactly move very fast," answered another voice, this one sounding more of a Caucasian tone. The squeaking of shoes could be heard as the unknown pair moved about.

"Is this place safe?" asked the first voice.

"Looks like it, but it won't hurt to be too careful," reasoned the second voice. "Never know when one of those fuckers might pop up, anyways." They both sounded young, maybe teenagers or a little older even. He listened to the footsteps making their way across the shop floor a little more, until they stopped and started heading back towards the entrance.

"Hey dude, check this out!" cried one of the new arrivals. Dean risked sticking his head up from behind his cover, and saw two figures stood by the service tills, with their backs to him, thankfully. They were both dressed in identical faded jeans and white vests (all splattered with blood), and could practically be the same person, aside from the varying skin tones, and the fact one was about 2 inches taller than the other. The taller one looked like a young adult, with a dark skin tone, while the shorter man was still a teenager, maybe 17 at the most and with a pale skin tone. The orange headbands they wore, along with the same-coloured cloth that was wrapped around the arm of the taller one, got Dean's suspicions up.

When one of them turned slightly, and he got a good view of the tattoo of a scorpion on their shoulder, a wave of recognition hit him. These two were members of the Scorpions, one of the street gangs in Raccoon City. The ubiquitous tattoo design and the colour orange were the gang's trademarks, and he knew this cause nearly every R.P.D officer had dealt with them at one time or another. Dean had done it on at least 3 occasions, and each time it had nearly ended in violence. They were all no-good punks as far as he was concerned, and they all hated the police with a passion.

"Someone forgot to empty the cash registers, man!" cried the taller man, his voice high in elation. And with that, he started grabbing the money and shoving handfuls of notes into his jean pockets and even down the front of the garments.

"For fuck's sake man, screw the money!" cried his companion, showing obvious distress.

"A chance like this don't come around often," reasoned the other one. "So why say no?"

"For fuck's sake, all of our buddies are dead!" shouted the younger man, sounding very distressed. "And all you care about is lining your damned pockets!"

"Hey!" seethed the older gang member, turning on his companion and getting in his face. "I didn't want you to come with me, but I agreed anyway. What if I decided to blow your head off instead?!"

Dean just listened as the two men started bickering over the money. Even if Raccoon City was dying as they argued, they were content to fight over money, the root of all evil as far as many people were concerned. But then again he supposed that people would always be willing to take advantage of a time of crisis. But this wasn't some random riot: it akin to the end of the world itself.

"Dude, step off now!" snarled the older gang member, suddenly pulling a Tech-9 machine pistol out of the back of his jeans and shoving it in his partner's face, who quickly backed away in shock. Dean himself bristled in surprise as he saw the gun being drawn.

"Hey man, cool off!" the younger man protested, lifting his hands up.

"Why should I?" sneered the older one, seemingly enjoying the terror on his partner's face. "Lorenzo's been going on for weeks how he hates the fact that you're always whining about the gan being too rough! I'd be doing us all a favour, putting you down!"

"For God's sake!" pleaded the teenager, his voice very shaky now. "The others are all dead! Who the hell cares about what they would've wanted now?!"

Dean had seen enough: they might have chosen to be scumbags for life, but he couldn't stand by while one of them was being threatened with having his head blown off for simply standing up to his fellow gang-banger.

"That's enough!" he spoke as he stood up, aiming his shotgun towards them as he did so. The Tech-9 was swung towards him, as were a couple of shocked expressions.

"What?" squeaked the one with the gun. "Where'd the hell you come from?!"

"I've been here the whole time," explained Dean, keeping his stance. "Maybe you should've paid less attention to the cash registers."

"Shut up!" snapped the older gang member, thrusting the weapon in Dean's direction. "We're human like you, so there's no need to keep pointing that thing at us!"

"Really?" asked Dean with just a touch of sarcasm. "You looked as though you wouldn't hesitate blowing your friend's head off, so why save my head?"

"Hey come on man," joked the Scorpion, his face lightening somewhat. "We do it all the time, don't we?" He turned to face the younger member as he said this, but the young man's face didn't show any acceptance with his friend's story.

"Hey, what's going on?"

Everyone's attention was drawn to the back of the store, where a clean-faced Ben had re-emerged, and he was just standing there, taking in the scene of his friend aiming a shotgun at a pair of strangers who were standing near to the service tills. But when he saw the gun in the hand of one of them, and the orange gang colours they were wearing, he knew instantly something was up.

"What the-?"

"You!" half-shouted the one with the gun, his hateful gaze directed at Ben. "It was you who put my brother away!"

"What?!" asked Ben, looking flabbergasted. Dean's facial expression wasn't that different either, looking back and forth between Ben and the gang members.

"Now you'll get what's coming to ya!" shouted the Scorpion, raising his weapon.

Ben cursed and threw himself to the ground, just as Dean's shotgun went off.

BOOM!

The shot missed for the main part, but some of the buckshot grazed the shooter's left arm and drawing blood. He cried out and staggered back, but his Tech-9 still fired, the bullets tearing into one of the racks between him and Dean, but not hitting anything vital. While all this was going on, the younger Scorpion ducked his head and ran for cover elsewhere, as Ben threw himself down into some cover as well.

"You son of a bitch!" roared the wounded man, as he fired a few more times toward Dean's position, but hitting only clothes and shelves. "Your fair game now!"

"Bring it!" shouted Dean back, still crouched behind cover, but also moving around to his left trying to get a clear view of his target. He didn't really want to kill the guy, but if he was trying to kill him, then that would do away with any niceties involved.

"Oh goddamnit!" cried Ben as he shuffled across the store floor on his own hands and knees, as the gunman fired a few bursts of bullets towards the general location of his raised voice. The rounds shredded through clothes and impacted against the far wall, but missing him thankfully. At one point a burst came dangerously close to his head and he hit the floor prone, holding his hands over his head to protect himself. He then looked up to see Dean crouched a short distance away. "Dean, what the hell are you thinking?!"

"In case you haven't noticed Ben, he's trying to kill us!" seethed Dean, before popping up and firing a round of buckshot towards the Latino gang member. It missed, smacking into the service counter and tearing through the wood in a hail of splinters, but sending the man ducking for cover as a result. Dean popped back into cover as he loaded the next shell in his weapon. "In case you've got a better idea to deal with it, but he was intent on shooting you!"

"I don't even know who he is!" protested Ben, looking around for danger.

"Well, he knows who you are! So unless a better solution presents itself-" shouted Dean, before he stood up and made a move towards another rack closer to the entrance.

Behind his cover of a set of wooden shelves, the Scorpion member clenched a spare magazine for his weapon between his teeth, holding the gun in his right hand. He glanced down at his left arm, which was issuing blood from a bloody tear about halfway up, just above his elbow. He was feeling light-headed and nauseous, but he couldn't let it get the better or him, cause now he had the perfect opportunity to avenge his brother's death. That cop…that Campbell, he'd pay for tearing their family apart like that.

Gritting his teeth, he deftly reloaded the gun, letting the empty magazine fall to the ground with a clatter. He then popped out of his cover, and fired a burst towards a human form he could make out crouching behind a clothing rack. The bullets missed their intended target, sailing overhead and hitting the wall, but he drove the man further into cover, which stopped him returning fire at least. He spiralled back behind his cover, wincing as the movement sent his arm into waves of pain again.

"Hey!"

He quickly turned in the direction of the voice, his gun raised, to see the object of his vengeance stood there: the blond-haired man known as Campbell, his hands raised up in an effort to show that he wasn't a danger to anyone at the moment. The Scorpion almost couldn't believe his luck, that his target would come towards him like that, and unarmed as well. His lips twisted up into a sneer as his finger closed around the trigger.

"There's no need for this!" the unarmed man protested. "Not in a situation like this!"

"I don't care about what's going on out there!" seethed the gang member in a venomous manner. "This is between you and me, you filthy pig!"

"I don't even know what the hell I'm supposed to have done!" protested the unarmed cop, his hands making dramatic movements.

"You were the one who tore our family apart!" spat the gang member, the gun starting to waver in his hand. "Everything shitty that's happened for the last two years is all…down…to…you."

Ben just continued staring, exasperated. This man was raving as though he was at fault for everything bad that had happened in the man's life. He was a cop so he was bound to piss some criminal's relatives along the way, but this man was unlike anything else he'd been subjected to. No-one else had threatened him with death, at the least.

"Wait," he then muttered, as he started to take in the man's features. "I know who you are…"

"Really? I'm so flattered," replied the gang member in a sarcastic manner. "Just as well this face is the last thing you'll ever see!" he pulled back the hammer as he spoke those words, causing Ben to back away in a fearful manner.

"Hey, dipshit!"

The Scorpion turned in the direction of the new voice.

BOOM!

A shotgun went off, and he felt an intense pain shooting through his neck, before he was crashing to the floor, the gun falling from his hand and feeling something warm and wet pouring from his most recent wound.

Dean stood off to the side, his shotgun raised with smoke trailing out from the barrel, his face set in an unsympathetic expression. Ben just stood off to the side, staring in disbelief as the man who was about to execute him lay there, blood gushing from a shotgun wound in his neck.

"Dean, what the hell are you doing?!"

"He was going to shoot you Ben!" argued Dean, pointing at the man lying on the ground. "He ain't some kid who doesn't know how to use a gun: he knew what was he was doing, and he was going to blow your head off! I wasn't just going to stand by while he did that!"

Ben just made a frustrated sound as he looked back down at the dying gang member, right hand clenched to his neck in an effort to stop the bleeding, but not having much luck as the red liquid slowly spread out from where he was lying, like a lake with a mind of its own. He watched with morbid intent as the liquid spread further and further out, touching the tips of his shoes as he stood there, the gang member making strangled efforts to try and breath, even with half his neck torn through with buckshot.

"Y…you…" he spluttered, blood spilling from between his lips in a gruesome sight.

"Yes, I know you now," Ben said, crouching closer to the young man now. "You're Samuel Lorenzo of the Scorpions, aren't you? You and your brother Kirk joined the gang at the same time, didn't you?"

"Y-yeah," managed Sam, his blood still spreading across the wooden floor. "And then…you took…him away from me… from us…"

"Your brother was caught with a loaded handgun and some drugs on him Sam, at least two years ago. What did you think was going to happen to him?" explained Ben, his tone still low and understanding.

"He…he was…moving them…for someone else…"

"Whether he was doing it for someone else or himself, it's irrelevant now," explained Ben, his face hardening as he told the dying gang member the truth. "And killing me won't bring him back."

"He…asked…me…" Sam barely managed to whisper, his breathing becoming less laboured now, showing he was close to death. "To make the one…responsible…pay…Took forever…to find a good…chance to…kill…you…"

"Like I said, killing me won't bring him back."

"It's…a matter…of pride…Mr. Campbell," wheezed Samuel, trying to move his hand to reach for the Tech-9 lying a few inches away, but he was too weak to manage even that. Dean just stood by, his face set in stone as the man's life blood slipped away with each action he made. He didn't feel any need to try and comfort the man, since he had just been trying to kill them moments beforehand without any hesitation, and because of the fact that his wound was one that it wasn't exactly easy to recover from either.

"I didn't want anything like this to happen," explained Ben. "But I'm sorry it turned out this way as well. I'm sorry about your brother and everything else that you think I'm to blame for, but vengeance never turns out well for the avenging one."

"Then…I'll see…you…in…hell…" wheezed Sam, as he used the last of his strength to raise his hand and flick the middle finger towards Ben, before his arm slumped to the ground and he took his last breath.

There was an awkward silence for several moments, as Dean just stared at the dead body and wondered how someone's hatred could endure, even in a hellish situation such as this. He didn't feel any pity for the man though, seeing as how he'd tried to kill both of them previously. Ben continued staring at the body for a bit, before he reached out and closed the man's eyelids with his hand, and then he stood up and turned to face Dean, his face bearing an unamused expression.

"Happy now?"

"What?"

"Another death that could've been averted," explained Ben, his tone adopting an angry edge. "I hope you're pleased with yourself!"

"Averted? Fuck that!" snapped Dean back, his back well and truly up. "He was going to kill you for something that happened ages ago, just cause he couldn't accept that his brother was scum!"

"What if one of your family for arrested for something Dean?" asked Ben, still pressing his case. "Wouldn't you fight to the death to argue their defence?"

Dean sighed. His friend had got him there. He was kinda seeing the point, but he was still angry at being shot at. "But he was still trying to kill you, Ben!" he argued, his patience being worn out. "Times like that, it's probably worthless trying to talk him out of it!"

Ben sighed and rubbed his eyes. God, he was tired. Nothing like a near-death experience to get your adrenaline shifting again though, he reasoned. He had to admit that Dean had a good point as well: if he hadn't had turned up and shot Sam Lorenzo in the neck, he probably would've been dead by now. But he still felt uncomfortable. All the death he'd seen in Raccoon City was beginning to eat away at his soul.

_Click._

They both span around at the sound of a gun's hammer being cocked to see the other gang member who had originally entered the store with Sam Lorenzo stood there, a Glock handgun in his hands, breathing heavily, and a terrified expression on his face. His hands were shaking badly as well, and that could set the gun off at any second.

"Hey kid," said Dean lightly, extending his hand out towards the teenager. "Come on, we're not going to hurt you."

"But you killed Sam!" snapped the teenager, his voice shaky and very weak. "How do I know y-y-you won't kill me as well?"

"Cause there's no reason to," explained Ben slowly, his hands extended outwards as well.

"B-b-but there was no reason to kill Sam!"

"Yes there was: he was a danger to everyone," tried Dean, in an attempt to calm the kid down. "He tried to shoot you, remember?"

"I've got a gun now though, so technically I'm a danger," reasoned the kid, his voice starting to straighten itself out. "You gonna kill me too?!"

"No!" exhorted Ben.

"Liars!" half-screamed the teenager. "He was always going on about how the police had ruined his life! So I'll do him a service and kill you both right now!"

"Think you can shoot us then?" asked Dean, taking a step forward, causing the gun's aim to switch towards him.

"I-I-I've killed plenty of those things tonight!"

"Killing a zombie and killing a human isn't the same thing," explained Dean calmly, even as he felt sweat trickling down his back.

"How would you k-k-know?!"

"I've done it before," explained Dean, telling the truth. "Only when I had no choice though. Killing someone probably makes you feel like a big man, doesn't it? But it shows how easy it can be to take life away, how frail it is."

The teenagers aim continued to waver, but then his face twisted up into a confident sneer.

"Maybe so, but there's something else you're missing."

"And what's that?" asked Dean.

"Taking life away…that _is _the ultimate power. Pulling the trigger, watching the life drain from their eyes…it's so damned empowering," the kid explained, his face brightening up considerably. He was loving what he was talking about. Ben and Dean just stared at him as he ranted. "I've done it once before, when I first joined this gang. It sure took a lot of balls, but I can do it again. And I'll prove it…by killing you both here."

"No!" cried Ben, and then found himself staring down the gun barrel. He hesitated for a moment before he continued. "This isn't necessary!"

"Oh, but it is," retorted the teenager, "the others were always saying how I was a yellow-bellied coward, but I'll show them…I'll show them all! Once you're both dead, it'll show that I can do anything!"

Dean cursed under his breath. There was no reasoning with this kid now: he'd been pushed over the edge by the gruesome sights in the city, and now he'd been given that extra push he needed to just execute these two men in cold blood. He'd heard about how some gangs had an initiation that involved killing a random person on the street, but this went beyond all of that. The look in his eyes: that was the look of a pure-blooded killer.

"Wonder what it'll be like to see you both die," the teenager said, a model of clam. And then he raised the handgun once again. "Goodbye."

"Well it was good to know you, old buddy," whispered Ben, as he glanced towards Dean.

"Likewise," whispered Dean back.

Then both of them screwed their eyes shut and waited for the inevitable sound of a gunshot, which came screaming out of nowhere.

BANG!

**A/N: So, another chapter, and an awful lot to take in, including characters arguing with evil voices inside their heads, trying not to get blown away by crazed survivors because of things that happened in the past, overdue reunions with old friends, and another battle with everyone's favourite one-eyed, smiley faced, homicidal B.O.W. Don't you just want to give him a**** big hug? Oh, and a cliff-hanger to end on. **

**But I've rambled on long enough. See you all next time, and as always, R+R please. **


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16: Respite

**September 27****th**** 1403 hours**

BANG!

Dean kept his eyes screwed shut, but he didn't feel any blinding flashes of pain or otherwise, or maybe he wasn't supposed to feel anything, until he went crashing to the ground with blood pouring from the hole in his chest. But nothing happened, and the silence was deafening, to say the least.

Tentatively, he opened one of his eyes to see what was wrong. He was still standing, and as far as he could see, so was Ben, who was starting to open his own eyes now, and both of them were quickly checking themselves over to see if they were hurt in any way, but neither of them were.

The young teenager who had been threatening them with death moments beforehand was still stood there, the gun in his hands, but a look of utter shock and surprise etched upon his face. Then, the gun tumbled from his hands as his fingers slowly released the pressure they'd been exerting a minute beforehand. And then he was slowly reaching a hand up to his chest, where a large bloodstain was spreading like a lake across the white fabric of his vest.

"No…" he whispered, before he keeled over forward and landed face-first on the ground, a fresh bullet wound in his back. A small amount of smoke still rose from the wound.

"Damn…" muttered Ben. "That was too fucking close!"

"Good thing I showed up then," added an unknown, unfamiliar voice from somewhere nearby.

They both looked in the direction of the new voice, towards a figure stood in the doorway of the store, a smoking handgun clenched in his hands. After a few seconds, he holstered the gun and walked into the store proper, stepping into the light so the two friends could see him. They saw a fairly tall man clad in light green and beige fatigues, complete with a black tactical vest worn around his chest and a beret upon his head. An M4A1 assault rifle dangled from a strap around his shoulders.

Ben didn't know the man, but Dean thought he did.

"Hold on...is that you Nick?" he asked hopefully.

"Who?" asked Ben, looking confused.

"Dean?" asked the new arrival, removing his beret to show an African-American man with dark eyes and shortly cut hair. "Dean Travers? Didn't think I'd ever see you again!"

"Whoa, whoa, hold on," interrupted Ben, putting himself between Dean and the stranger who had just referred to his friend on a first name basis. "You know him?"

"Remember those Umbrella mercenaries I was telling you about?" explained Dean. "This is their commanding officer, Nicholas Johnson. Or Nick for short."

"Well, my name gets around," said Nick, walking around so he could sit himself down on one of the empty waist-high displays in the store. "And I'm assuming this is a friend of yours?"

"Er, yeah," replied Dean, still noting the confused look on Ben's face. "This is my partner, and my old friend, Ben Campbell."

"Yeah, nice to meet you too, Mr. Johnson," added Ben, taking a step forward, looking a little unimpressed by the armed man's sudden appearance. "And am I right in thinking you work for Umbrella?" Dean looked a bit taken aback by Ben's sudden question.

"I did," answered Nick, as if fully expecting it, "until they sent us into this damned place. Now, I consider myself a free agent. Myself and the others."

"Well that's all well and good," replied Ben, "but Dean says here that you know about what's been happening in this city, so if you don't mind, I'd like to hear that too."

"Ben!" said Dean, his voice raised a little. "He's barely saved our lives, the least you can do is not jump up his ass with questions! Or at the very least, give him another minute to get acquainted!"

"Hey, hey, it's fine," smiled Nick, raising a hand to stop Dean from having a go at his partner. "But don't you think it'd be a good idea for us to get to a safer place first?" The other two looked at one another, and then back towards Nick.

"Sounds good to me," replied Dean, looking at Ben, who just looked as though he agreed, even if he were impatient to be told the truth about what was going on in the city. "You got a place in mind?"

"Yeah, the others have already shored up a place where we can sit tight," explained Nick.

"The others are still alive?" asked Dean hopefully.

"Well, most of them are."

_Most of them are, _thought Dean. _Better than nothing I suppose. _

"That's good to hear," sighed Dean. "But why the hell are you so far away from the clock tower?"

"You think we didn't make an effort to get to the clock tower?" replied Nick, his tone changing to a more confrontational volume. "That was our initial plan, but then things changed, and we couldn't get through. The streets were choked."

"With zombies?" ventured Ben.

Nick just nodded. "Well, zombies and other…things."

"Shame," observed Dean. "But it was wise to stay away: I was actually there, but then some bad things happened, and I had to leave in a very big hurry…it's a long story."

"Well you can tell me about it once we get out of here," Nick said, moving towards the door already, before turning back to face them. "Unless there's something else you want to do beforehand?"

"Well actually," interrupted Ben, "he was going to put some fresh clothes on and get cleaned up, weren't you Dean?"

"Er, yeah I was," replied Dean with a slight hesitation.

"Ah, I see," replied Nick. "Wondered why you were in a place like this, of all places. At the least, I thought you'd have managed to find someway out the city."

"Yeah, we're working on that," cut in Ben, still standing off to the side feeling left out. "Doesn't seem to be any safe places left in this city, anyways."

"Still, it'd be good if we all rested up before making one last break for the city limits."

"Look, let me get ready first, then we can go from there, OK?" interjected Dean, keen to get things moving again.

"Fine by me," stated Ben, sitting himself down on another free shelf opposite from where Nick was sat. "Gives us time to get to know each other."

"Right then," said Dean, walking to where he had left the pile of new clothes he had selected beforehand and picking them up. "Won't be long," he then said, turning to make his way towards the changing room.

"Wait, where's Taylor?" asked Nick, making Dean stop in his place and sigh deeply. He turned around to see Nick's concerned face. "Isn't he with you?"

"Taylor…" started Dean, looking down to the floor. "…I'm sorry, but he's gone. When we passed through the Raccoon Zoo on our way to the Clock Tower…an infected lion got to him…and I couldn't do anything else to help him."

Nick sighed and looked down to the ground, turning away and looking fairly stressed out as he did so, staring out of the nearby window. Ben kept a dignified silence as he looked between Dean and Nick's back. It was a while before the U.B.C.S merc talked again.

"Look, I won't hold that against you Dean," he said slowly. "Taylor was pretty much a hero to the rest of us, and I'm sure he died as a hero. It's a miracle the rest of us have lived this far along in this hell…so it'd be somewhat foolish to assume even he would have survived for this long."

"But-"

"Hey, don't beat yourself up Dean," interrupted Nick. "Just be glad you're still here to face the rest of this nightmare."

Dean smiled a little. "Well, if you put it that way-" And then he had a sudden thought and reached into his sidepack, bringing out the same device Taylor had been using beforehand: something he'd nearly forgotten about.

"What's that?" asked Ben, perking up.

"That," replied Nick, stepping up to take the device from Dean, "is a storage device for all kinds of data. And it'll make my story a bit easier to explain when we get back to camp."

"It will?" asked Ben, looking at the small object Nick was already tucking away into one of his storage pouches.

"OK, I won't be long," affirmed Dean, disappearing behind one of the changing room curtains.

There was an awkward silence for a few minutes, before Ben turned to Nick and folded his arms in front of him. "So, why did you and your friends work for Umbrella in the first place?"

Nick looked at him for a few seconds before he replied, unsure why he was showing such interest. "We're like a clean-up crew. When something goes wrong, we go in to clean it up."

"So this is what Raccoon City is? A mess to clean up?" asked Ben, his tone getting harsher. "Zombies are wandering the streets and this is just a mess to them?!"

"Yes, it is," replied Nick with unusual calmness. "And we get the lucky job of going in cause no-one will miss us if we get killed. Us, a load of military cast-offs and social scumbags. In the U.B.C.S, you're lucky to get past even your very first mission alive."

"But how could Umbrella be producing something that could cause this much damage?" asked Ben, sounding more upset now. "They could have prevented this!"

"Could they?" asked Nick. "Maybe they wanted this to happen in the first place."

"That's insane!" half-shouted Ben.

"Is it? Believe me Mr Campbell, you don't know a damned thing about Umbrella's true face."

With that statement left hanging in the air, there was a sound of a curtain being drawn, and they both looked up to see Dean emerge from the changing room, his new clothes donned. He pointed towards the bathroom. "Let me get cleaned up now, OK?" They both nodded in recognition as he disappeared through the next door.

"Well why don't you tell me about their true face?" asked Ben, turning back towards Nick. "Let me know what it is we're dealing with."

"Oh I intend to," muttered Nick, staring past Ben into an empty space. His face showed incredulous fury as he spoke. He probably hated Umbrella as much as was humanly possible. "But there's a hell of a lot to tell. How about we wait until we get to our safe haven?"

"Ugh, fine," sighed Ben. "But I hope I don't need to wait too long." There was another bought of silence, before Nick looked at the two corpses lying in the store close to where they were sat.

"Who are they?" the U.B.C.S operative asked.

"Just some survivors who wanted to find refuge," explained Ben. "But they found something else, unfortunately for them. They both needed to be shot…regrettably."

"The ends justify the means," observed Nick, staring at the body of the young man with a bullet hole in his back. "Self-preservation over-rides everything else, I'm sure you'll find."

Ben sighed. He supposed the mercenary was right, no matter how much he tried to ignore it. Self-preservation had gotten him this far. But how much further would it get him?

"The young one you shot…he'd convinced himself he was ready to kill humans," explained Ben, still staring at the corpses. "He'd shot so many zombies…and he wanted to step up his game."

"Shooting a zombie isn't the same as shooting a human, trust me," sighed Nick. "First time I shot another human being…it wasn't very pretty, trust me." He stared into the far distance again, as memories of gunfire, followed by tearing flesh and a piercing scream attacked his ears.

"I hope I never turn out like that," sighed Ben, still staring at the corpses. "Never."

Dean sighed and rubbed his face, observing his reflection in the mirror before him. He could still make out his green eyes clearly, but otherwise practically every square inch of his face was doused in dirt and grime, along with a fair amount of caked and dried-on blood in small splotches. Huge dark circles surrounded his eyes as well, to show his lack of sleep to the world. He sucked in his lips for a second, before he ran his hand over his face, dragging pale lines in the layer of dirt covering him.

He was in the store bathroom right now, which was thankfully empty of any potential threats. Last thing he needed was something to come sneaking up on him while he was getting himself cleaned up, with his weapons propped up in one of the far corners of the room.

Gingerly, he turned the hot tap on, but nothing came out. Great, he thought, as he turned the other tap instead, causing chilling cold water to issue out of the tap. Better than nothing though, he thought, as he ran his hands underneath the stream and started to scrub over his face, wiping away the filth. He moved up onto his arms, the chilling water washing away the grime and blood caked on his lower arms, right up to his elbow regions. A steady stream of brownish-red water drained away down the sinkhole as he washed himself clean.

After a few minutes, he looked at himself in the mirror again. He could actually see a human face staring back at him this time, small droplets of water dripping from the tip of his nose and his fringe, and he offered a slight sigh of relief. Then he was grabbing for some nearby paper towels, using them to wipe off the excess water clinging to his forearms and his face, practically scraping off any dirt that still clung to his body after his initial clean-up.

He cringed slightly as he saw the small bruises dotting his exposed arms in places, and in particular the ugly burn wound on his right arm, where he'd been hit by some spider venom a couple hours beforehand. It didn't hurt anymore, but the sight of it still gave him a tinge of pain at the wound's memory. It looked as though he'd been in a hell of a brawl, but of course he knew it was from his many experiences within the damned city, and there would be more ahead of him, he was sure. His body would be taking more punishment before the end of this whole debacle, and he'd have to be ready for that.

When he was sure that he was done, he donned his tattered jacket again, making sure that all his belongings were still in the pockets where he left them, and the sidepack filled with his ammo and other supplies as well was tied back around his waist. He was all set to go, so he stepped back outside into the main store, being met with the combined gaze of Ben and Nick, still sat over by the doors, waiting for him to be done.

He stopped to retrieve his weapons, before he approached his companions.

"All set?" asked Nick.

"Ready as I'll ever be," replied Dean, lowering his shotgun before him to show that he meant business.

"Well, let's get going then," replied the U.B.C.S commander, lowering his own weapon. "Before anything else shows up."

And with that, the three humans walked out of the store, Ben pausing only briefly so he could take a coat from one of the clothing rails near the front door, a green padded garment that would keep him warm in the chilling winds outside, and besides, he didn't have a coat with him when he came along to the store in the first place. All set, the trio walked through the sliding doors and back out onto the streets.

They left the bodies of the two gang members behind, festering where they had fallen.

They all stood on a street corner, looking around for anything remotely hostile to come along.

"So, what are we waiting for?" asked Ben, impatiently. He looked behind him down the street, to see a pair of zombies wandering out of an alleyway and away down the street, searching for fresh meat. Luckily, they took no notice of the three humans standing out in the open, but Ben still stifled a slight shiver.

"A friend," said Nick, as if it were blindingly obvious. "We were both out on a sweep."

"A sweep for what?" asked Dean, looking down a nearby alleyway. Nothing stirred within, but it didn't hurt to be too careful.

"Survivors, supplies, anything remotely useful really," answered Nick, glancing at the surrounding rooftops. Following past encounters with giant bug-like monsters with sickle-like claws that came scurrying down the walls around them, he'd learned to keep a close eye on the walls and the rooftops.

"If there's anything like that left in this place," muttered Ben pessimistically. Dean just ignored him, since he was holding a similar view in a way.

Just then, the sound of a tin can being knocked over was heard, and their attention was drawn towards the alleyway a short way down the street. Their weapons were raised and aimed towards the opening between the buildings. Footsteps could now be heard echoing towards them, but they sounded a little too regular to belong to a zombie. But, it could still be some other non-zombie monster, so they remained readied as the footsteps drew closer and closer, and a human form stepped out into the street.

It was a human, thankfully, a man dressed in the familiar fatigues and combat gear of the U.B.C.S, an M249 light machine gun held in his hands, and a large duffel bag slung over one of his shoulders. His light brown hair was shaven close to his head, a small streak of his scalp marked with an old scar that hadn't fully healed yet. He turned in their direction and started to walk a few paces towards them, stopping to look back down the street as he moved, taking his time to be careful as he did so. When he got close enough, he noticed the small group standing in the shadows and started to raise his weapon, but stopped when he realised who it was. He started to smile as he approached.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed. "Didn't think I'd see you again!" he continued, practically shoving past Ben to shake Dean's hand, thankful to see someone he'd fought alongside still alive.

"Er, yeah thanks, Joel," replied Dean awkwardly, before he looked at Ben, still stood there looking a little left-out. "Er, this is my partner, Ben Campbell."

"Pleasure to meet you," said Joel, turning to give Ben a hearty handshake. "Sorry I didn't notice you straight away."

"Yeah, I feel the same way," replied Ben, lacking enthusiasm.

"This," interjected Nick, stepping between Ben and Joel, "is Corporal Joel Setzer, one of the best men you can rely on in a pinch, and our heavy weapons trooper. You want something torn to shreds, you go see him."

"Oh come on," replied Joel. "You know I couldn't hit the broad side of the barn from 50 paces."

"Look, I'm sorry to interrupt this reunion, but can we hurry up and get to somewhere safe?" asked Ben, a hint of impatience in his voice.

The two mercs looked at Ben for a few seconds, looking a little hurt at the fact their little banter had been cut short.

"Right, sorry about that," said Nick finally, before looking back at Joel. "You find anything useful?"

"Oh yeah," replied Joel, opening the duffel bag with one hand and sorting through the contents, which included bottles of water and various types of food, such as shrink-wrapped sandwiches, bags of potato chips and candy bars. Amongst those were medical supplies such as bandages, plasters, vials of morphine and some other substances Dean and Ben didn't recognise. "And that's not all," continued Joel, digging down to the bottom of the bag, exposing what looked like boxes of ammunition and an M4A1 assault rifle.

"Geez, where'd you find all that?" asked Ben, a little surprised.

"I found it all in an abandoned gun store…no-one else wanted it, so I just helped myself."

"Well nice work Joel," replied Nick, patting his colleague on the arm. "All I found were these two, as you can see."

"Well more people helps out, right?" suggested Ben, looking between the two mercs. "Besides, how many more of you are still alive?"

"Aside from me and Joel? Two more from our platoon."

"Damn…" muttered Dean.

"…but we joined up with two others from Charlie Platoon," added the Lieutenant. "But one of them was badly wounded, and I fear we're the only ones left from the entire U.B.C.S deployed into Raccoon City now."

"Hardly surprising, considering what you got dropped into," reasoned Ben, indicating the general chaos surrounding them. "No-one could be expected to survive this."

"But we did, didn't we?" added Dean, turning to face his friend. "That counts for something, right?"

"Come on, we should move," added Nick, readying his weapon. "It's too painful to linger on the past."

"Yeah," agreed Joel, looking around. The two cops just nodded in agreement, before the whole group trailed away up the street, towards their objective of a safe haven. But then the heavy gunner stopped and looked behind them. "Hold on, where's Taylor?"

"Taylor…didn't make it," explained Nick, sighing heavily.

"What? Even Taylor got killed? Damn…"

Dean felt something twist in his gut…was it guilt? Possibly, since he'd been unable to stop Taylor from dying at the claws and teeth of an undead lion. And it was his fault that Taylor had died, technically, since the scout have shoved him out of the way of a fatal attack, which he took himself. But what if he told the others that? Would they hate him for it?

"Come on, we're wasting time just standing around, let's get going," announced Nick suddenly, making a move out into the middle of the road.

_Worry about that later, _thought Dean to himself as he hurried after the others.

Dean and Nick walked out in front, while Ben hung back alongside Joel. They walked in silence for about a block, before Ben finally broke it.

"So…what were you before you joined Umbrella?"

"Me?" asked Joel, seemingly surprised to have someone start a conversation with him. "I was U.S Marine Corps. Joined up around the time of the Gulf War, fighting out in the desert. At least back then the enemy only tried to shoot you: not try to eat your face off."

The two men shared a smirk at the little observation, but it soon faded as Ben proposed another question. "So what happened then?"

Joel bit his lip painfully before he continued. "We were clearing out a small town, since the enemy had a habit of hiding in any little place they could. Things were looking clear, but then we got to this little shack on the edge of the town, and we got jumped by about three hostiles. Two of our squad were killed before I realised what was happening, so I just gunned the trigger." He sucked on his lip before he continued, his eyes relaying the pain he was feeling in recounting his story.

"I was using an M249, like this gun, and I tore through them like nothing. I'd been a soldier for a few months, but I'd never seen people get torn up like that. Blood and organs all over the walls, on the ceiling. I felt ill just looking at it. And that smell…that stench of copper. Then I heard movement behind me and without thinking, I turned and opened fire. But it wasn't an enemy: it was one of my own squad members."

"Damn…" muttered Ben.

"I never meant to shoot him, I didn't! But the military court didn't care. I was declared guilty and sentenced to rot in jail for life. Just like that, a life thrown away in an instant." He clenched his teeth for a few seconds, before he calmed and continued. "And then 2 years ago, I was visited by these guys in suits. Said they worked for Umbrella, and could give me a way out, a new chance of life. So I said yes. What else could I do? Rot away in prison?"

"But if this is what awaited you," noted Ben, "you'd have been better off in jail."

Joel nodded. "Prison was heaven compared to this. "When they first told us we were going to fight biologically-created monsters such as zombies, I thought it was a sick joke. But then I saw those monsters with my own eyes." He stared ahead of him with that last statement, remembering the first time he'd seen zombies up close and personal.

"So, you've been in situations like this before?" asked Ben, stepping over a desecrated corpse lying on the tarmac.

"Oh yeah," replied Joel, "the first time I was involved in a minor outbreak at some place out in the middle of Africa, but it was nothing compared to this: this is a whole new level of FUBAR."

"FUBAR?" asked Ben, raising an eyebrow.

"Fucked up beyond all recognition!" shouted Nick from in front of them, causing Joel to smirk a little. Ben looked back towards Nick and back again, just as Dean turned to face him, smirking as well.

"Learn something new every day, don't you?" he asked his partner, who just smiled and nodded in response, his mood lightened somewhat.

"But anyways, Umbrella would probably love this."

"Why would they love something like this?" asked Ben, in suspended disbelief. "This city is their U.S base of operations; with it gone, their business takes a serious blow."

"Because," said Joel slowly and with a perfectly straight face, "those damned researchers always go on about their damned combat data. If it means sacrificing an entire city to get 'good results', then that doesn't bother them. If you ask me, they need that combat data shoved up their smug asses."

"Combat data?"

"Its how well each B.O.W operates in the field," shouted Nick from the front. "Or in simple terms, how they go about killing people."

"That's fucked up," said Ben, shaking his head.

"That ain't the half of it," muttered Joel deadpan. "Just wait till we get back to home base. Then Nick'll tell you things to make your toes curl."

"Can barely wait," muttered Ben darkly.

Deep within his soul, Ben could feel a burning hatred towards Umbrella stirring. This corporation, that had contributed to the building of this town, the corporation that had nurtured the cities' growth, were the ones responsible for the event that had effectively destroyed it. The cities foundation had been severely crippled: most of its population were either dead or transformed into flesh-eating monsters, and even if there was a way to cure the epidemic, it probably wouldn't be possible to restore the city to its former glory, not after this. And if it managed to get outside of the city- that scenario didn't bear thinking about. Right now, he was just grateful that his family were safe in Virginia, many, many miles away.

But his immediate friends and colleagues, people he'd known for years, people he'd regarded as a second family, they were all dead. He'd lost everything within a few hours, and Umbrella had let this happen. When he got out of this godforsaken place, he'd make sure that they'd pay for what they had done, not just to Raccoon City, but to everyone else they'd hurt throughout their existence. He'd kill every single bastard that worked for them with his bare hands, if he had to.

"So what happened at the clock tower?" asked Nick to Dean, as they walked ahead of Joel and Ben.

"Like I said, there were some civilians hiding there, and then some time later a couple of guys from your platoon showed up," explained Dean, staring straight ahead.

"Who?"

"One of them was called Adam Hopkins, I think, and the other one, that was Campbell."

"Shame you got stuck with that nut," scoffed Nick. "So what happened?"

"He killed at least two people: threw them to the zombies so he could use the distraction to get away, and then he tried to shoot the rest of us when we fought back."

Nick didn't look surprised. "Should have guessed that weasel would have done something like that. You know why he was discharged from the military in the first place?"

"Enlighten me," answered Dean, his voice deadpan.

"Rape and murder," continued Nick. "His unit was in its billets in Africa, and he went off by himself, found a local woman, and he raped here, and then he knifed her to death."

"Jesus…" came the muttered reply.

"And after he was arrested and tried, they did a psyche exam: he was found to be unstable, so God knows why Umbrella roped him into the U.B.C.S," continued Nick.

"Well that explains a lot," observed Dean.

"We're all trained to kill, but Campbell's a killer, simple as that," explained Nick. "I know it's a horrible thing to say, but if he's dead then I won't mourn him."

"Oh believe me, I feel the same way," growled Dean in a low voice. "The bastard nearly shot me, but I gave as good as I get. With any luck he's probably a zombie feast now."

"Good work," said Nick with a slight smile. "Trust me, if I got there first, I would've kicked his ass from here to Timbuktu. But what about Adam?"

"I think he managed to get the rest of them to somewhere safe," explained Dean. "I just hope they're still alive somewhere." Nick offered a weak smile that didn't hide his lack of belief in that last statement.

Instead, he just said 'Yeah, I'm sure they still are. But right now, let's worry about ourselves."

They all stopped at the corner of a street junction, hidden behind the corner of the brick warehouse just next to them. Diagonally across the street from them, nestled between a pair of apartment buildings, was a fairly nice-looking building of three stories. It was built from sandstone, sticking out like a sore thumb from the other red-brick buildings in the street. All the windows had the blinds drawn, and a crude defensive line of all sorts of random junk, from wooden crates to sandbags and even large blocks of rough concrete, probably taken from buildings that were in the process of collapse, had been constructed around the steps leading up to the building's front door.

A sign hanging on the wall next to the door read 'Finchum and Gold, Attorney's in Law.' The U.B.C.S seemed to have holed themselves up in a law office for some reason. It seemed almost ironic, considering that the law no longer applied in the zombie-infested Raccoon City.

"What are we waiting for?" asked Ben, impatient.

"Just wait and see," smiled Nick, as he watched the front of the building for a bit longer. A short while later, a figure emerged from the front door, carefully making their way down to the crude barricade, before stopping and taking a small object from one of their pockets and holding it up, creating a few brief bursts of reflected light towards the partially-hidden group. A hand-held mirror, most likely.

Nick casually removed an identical mirror from his own tactical vest and returned the bursts of light. After than was done, the person by the front steps started waving his hand in the air, indicating for the group to approach. At the same time, Dean noticed some movement at one the windows, another human figure moving away from view. Probably another man, keeping watch for danger.

As the group slowly crossed the street, they started taking note of the bodies lying on the tarmac. All of them zombies of course, at least two dozen of them, some of them piled atop one another. They made their way through, picking their way across the carpet of corpses, trying not to stand on any of the bodies directly. Dean noticed that most of them had been killed with perfectly efficient headshots, right between the eyes.

"We got a few of these freaks who followed us in," explained Joel, noticing Dean's apparent fascination with the multitude of corpses. "We had to take them out to make the place secure."

"Looks like you did a hell of a job in that regard," muttered Ben, stepping in a puddle of congealed blood as he spoke. He grimaced and shook his foot free of excess blood, just as he looked down at yet another pale face and stopped.

It was a man in his early thirties, wearing jeans and a dusty and tattered black leather jacket, the flesh ripped from his shoulders and neck in several places. A broken Mossberg shotgun lay nearby, buried underneath two more dead bodies. He could have been just another anonymous citizen of the city, but Ben recognised this one…

"Someone you know?" asked Nick suddenly, appearing next to him.

"Yeah…you could say that," replied Ben. "Just a shame I couldn't do anything else for him."

"Come on," encouraged the U.B.C.S member, leading him away from the grisly sight and towards the front of the law office.

As they drew closer, the features of the man stood by the steps started to come into view. He was wearing the light green and beige fatigues of the U.B.C.S, and he had cropped brown hair and a small Union Jack flag stitched onto one of his arms. He looked a little surprised when he saw Dean approaching the barricade.

"Geez, is that you, Dean?" he finally asked, his British accent becoming apparent now, as he cracked a pearly white smile (even more white against the general dirt and grime of his face), and made a move towards the bedraggled group.

"Er, nice to see you too Will," replied Dean, already turning to face Ben. "This is my partner, Ben Campbell. Ben, this is Will Daniels, the group's medic."

"Pleasure to meet you sir," said Will, giving Ben a hearty handshake that took him a little by surprise. "Your friend here is good at kicking arse, let me tell you!"

"Oh, I'm sure of it," replied Ben, forcing an awkward smile.

"And I'm sure you've kicked plenty of arse to get this far, eh?" the medic then asked.

"Could say that," mumbled Ben, barely audible. Will noticed that Ben looked a bit uncomfortable, and turned his attention to Nick.

"So, everything allright?" he asked.

"Yeah, just peachy," replied Joel, unslinging the duffel bag he had and thrusting it into the medic's hands. "Got a lot more supplies in there for us to unload."

"Geez, this weighs a ton," huffed Will, as he slung it over his own shoulder. "You got an elephant in here?"

"Stop moaning, just cause you're weak," joked Nick, electing a two-fingered salute from the medic. The officer just laughed at the medic's misfortune, before he asked a question. "How's things been?"

"Pretty quiet," responded Will, looking around. "I managed to stop Gary from bleeding to death, but it's not looking good for him unless we get him a blood transfusion, which I doubt will happen. The hospital's over the other side of town, as you know fine well."

"Dammit," cursed Nick.

"Who's Gary?" asked Ben curiously.

"He's from Charlie platoon," explained Joel. "We found him and one other guy not long ago, but he was in a right state: his guts were nearly torn out. Even if Will stopped him bleeding to death, he won't last much longer unless he can get

"Shit," cursed Dean.

"Come on, let's get inside," called Nick, and the group started to ascend the stairs to the front door, Daniels leading the way.

They filed into the decent-sized reception area, decked out with plush carpets and a large desk at the far side, pushed up against the wall to make maximum use of the available space. Various items such as ration boxes, water canteens and other edible objects were placed on it, along with what looked like some kind of radio unit. The chairs on the far side of the room had been covered in old blankets and sleeping bags, probably in an effort to create some form of sleeping arrangements. More sleeping bags lined the ground near to the seats.

"Welcome to our home…for the time being," stated Nick, turning to face Ben and Dean. He raised his arms and indicated the room as he spoke. "It's not much, but it's helped us for the most part since we got here."

"And how long's that been?" inquired Ben.

"About 10 hours," answered Nick. "Not that long, but we settled in quickly."

"So I see," murmured Ben in reply.

Dean looked past Nick and through a partially open door that lay just behind where the Lieutenant was stood. Inside, he could observe a few forms covered by filthy cloth sheets, with dark red splotches, as it happened…

"That's…our make-shift morgue," said Nick, noticing Dean's interest in the new room. "Not every U.B.C.S we found was alive…but we thought it'd be better to bring them here than leaving them outside."

"Better here than leaving them out there for some damned zombie to feast upon," observed Will bitterly.

Dean nodded in realisation of this fact, as Nick sagely closed the door to the little 'morgue'.

Joel was busy unloading the food he'd found onto the desk in the room, as Will started to make his way towards the stairs to the left of where they had originally entered through.

"Sorry guys, but I need to check on Gary," he explained. "See you in a bit."

"Yeah, sure," nodded Dean, as the medic disappeared upstairs. Nick didn't notice this little exchange, too busy was he in setting up a small desk-top computer, plugging a small cable that lead from one of the side ports into Taylor's PDA device that he had acquired recently. A few seconds later, a small pop-up reading 'Transferring Data' appeared on the screen and a small progress bar started to fill up.

"What's it doing?" asked Dean curiously, peering past Joel's shoulder.

"It's downloading all of the data on that PDA onto the computer," explained Nick. "And by the looks of it, it's going to take a while, so make yourselves comfortable…"

"What kind of data?" asked Ben, staring at the progress bar filling up to 5%.

"Stuff that makes Umbrella look really bad: lab reports, experiment data, and the like. Stuff that'll boil your blood just looking at it."

"Wait a second, how'd Taylor manage to get that kind of stuff?" asked Dean, with a puzzled expression.

"Didn't Taylor tell you?" asked Nick, turning to face Dean. "He used to work for Umbrella in a more 'official' sense."

"What?!" exclaimed Dean loudly, nearly taking Ben by surprise, who just shook his head slightly at his friend's reaction. He was practically dead on his feet from fatigue. "No, I reckon he didn't mention that," finished Dean.

"Well, he was a member of their special forces, the USF," explained Nick, "about a year and a half ago. But he got sick of doing all their dirty work; got sick of all the horror he was seeing. So he left the corporation, stole a load of their experiment data as he did so."

"Geez…" said Ben, standing off to the side with Joel, who hadn't said a word for the last minute or so.

"Yeah. And then he turned up in the U.B.C.S, and he asked me to help in taking them down…" added Nick.

But the story was interrupted from a sudden scream from upstairs.

"AHHH IT HURTS!!!"

Everyone whirled in the direction of the stairs, just as a more familiar voice filtered down.

"Hold him still!" cried Will, a definite panic in his voice.

"Dammit!" cursed Nick, already making a move towards the stairs, closely followed by the others. "Joel! Keep an eye on the door!" the Lieutenant shouted over his shoulder, pointing towards the open doorway.

"Yes sir!" cried back the burley man as he took up position by the door, his large machine gun propped up on a crate.

Ben and Dean followed Nick upstairs and round the corner, into a corridor that stretched away into the distance. They passed by a few open office doors, walking on expensive scarlet carpeting. Dean peered into a few of the offices, to see most of them had been left virtually untouched, but a few had also been commandeered by the U.B.C.S for their needs, with offices where the desks had been moved to offer more space. In one office, various food items and bottles of water had been stacked up in ordered rows, while in another he witnessed a desk loaded up with spare weapons, including a couple of shotguns, an assault rifle, and even what looked like an M79 grenade launcher, all complete with their respective ammunition lying in stacks on the floor. And in the office at the end of the hall-

"AHHH!!!"

-was an impromptu surgical room, where in the centre of the room a heavily-wounded U.B.C.S member was being restrained by Will Daniels and one other soldier, who Dean didn't recognise. In one corner of the room lay a pile of used bandages, all stained crimson, and empty vials that probably used to contain morphine or some other drug. On a steel tray on a small table near the desk lay a number of surgical tools, such as a scalpel, syringe, and scissors. In another corner of the room was a variety of scientific tools, such as a microscope and a number of Petri dishes.

"Try and hold still for God's sake!" seethed Will through his clenched teeth as a flailing arm nearly knocked some of his teeth out. "You're not making things any easier for us!"

"The pain! The pain!" wailed the patient, flailing his arms some more. He was a young African-American, a few years younger than Dean, with a shaved head and with the sleeves of his fatigue shirt rolled up to the shoulders. Dean glanced down at the man and saw deep red stains across his stomach region, which and sharp tears in his clothing. Underneath all that he could see a thick wrapping of bandages, stained a deep red. It looked as though someone had tried to slice his stomach open with a scimitar. But considering what was happening in the city, he hardly doubted that these wounds were done by human hands.

"Damn…" he muttered.

"But we're out of Morphine, Doc!" cried the other U.B.C.S soldier holding his screaming comrade down, his voice showing a trace of Scottish accent. He was a stocky man of average height, with cropped red hair and a fair amount of stubble on his face, along with light blue eyes and a nose that looked as though it had been broken and then healed in an obtuse way. There was a small Scottish flag sewn onto one of the sleeves of his fatigue shirt.

"I know that!" seethed Will back, finally noticing the fact he had a small audience and addressing them briefly. "We managed to get him patched up, but then he woke up and started screaming again. I think his wound's started bleeding again! Or he's going into shock!"

"Great," muttered Nick, turning and disappearing down the corridor. Several seconds later, he reappeared with a small pack of morphine vials that Joel had found during his scrounging detail earlier. "Here," he then said, passing them to Will across the screaming patient.

"I could kiss you right now," sighed Will in relief as he removed one of the vials and held it between his teeth and started looking for a vein on the thrashing man's neck.

"Who'd want to kiss your ugly mug?" asked the other soldier present, a cheeky grin on his sweat-soaked face.

"Shut the hell up!" seethed Will through the vial clenched between his teeth He soon found a vein, removed the vial from between his teeth, and injected the poor dying man with the purple coloured liquid, before tossing the empty vial aside. A few seconds later, the wounded man's screaming faded away, replaced by happy moaning as he looked delirious.

"I love you man," he slurred, his eyes lolling about freely.

"Love you too," muttered Will as he grabbed for the scissors and started to cut through the man's bloody clothes, eventually exposing the heavily-bandaged stomach area. The bandages had been saturated in blood, and as the medic started to cut away the sodden bandages, he exposed a massive scar running across the stomach, hastily sewn together.

Ben nearly wretched at the sight, and soon he turned away, clutching a hand to his mouth in case he had to spew. Dean just stared at the sight, seemingly galvanised at any form of violence and blood-shed, after everything he'd seen so far in the city.

Nick noticed blood bubbling out from the corner of where the stitching had ended, the flesh around it having turned a sickly green colour, probably infected. "There!" he said, practically thrusting a finger into the wound again.

"But we stitched that part!" cried the Scot as he noticed the bleeding.

"Yes we did!" seethed Will, as he grabbed for his sewing kit on the nearby table. "But you know how these virus-infected wounds have a tendency to open up again!"

Dean felt a little uneasy at that last comment, just as the wounded man's eyes opened up again, and he looked around again.

"Where am I?" he asked meekly, like a scared child. "Where am I? Dad, is that you?" He sounded terrified now, stifling small sobs that were rising in the back of his throat.

Will and Nick looked at one another. If he didn't know where he was, there wasn't much that could be done for this poor chap.

"It's me, Will. You remember me, don't you Gary?" muttered Will, holding Gary's hand in a reassuring manner.

"Dad, I'm sorry," gasped Gary, still delirious, "I didn't mean to crash my bike, I swear…please don't be mad at me…"

Dean sighed. It was almost heart-rending, to see a grown man talking as though he was still a ten-year old fearful of his own father's anger. But Will was still making efforts not to lose the man though.

"I…I know you didn't mean to crash it," he said, playing along with his delusions. "I'm not mad at you Gary…"

"I'm sorry dad…I'm so-"

Suddenly, Gary's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he slumped down.

"What's happening?" asked the Scot, as Will's eyes opened wide in shock.

"We're losing him!" the medic cried, suddenly jumping up and putting his hands across Gary's chest, before administering the classic chest press technique in an effort to get him to wake up again. "Come on, come on!" he exhorted, beads of sweat pouring down his face as he pumped the man's chest, keeping a rhythm to his heart beat.

The others just stood by watching; some of them with looks of defeat upon their faces, deathly silent save for Will's heavy breathing as he attempted to rouse Gary from his premature death.

"Quick! Someone give me an adrenaline shot!" the medic then yelled not taking his eyes off of his patient, until Nick reached out and grabbed a hold of his hands to stop him from performing the resuscitation movements. Gary's chest wasn't moving at all, and his eyes remained closed.

"Leave it Will," muttered Nick simply, locking eyes with Will. "You can't do anything more for him."

Will stared at Nick for a while, and then he started to turn away slowly, staring at some point in the near distance. Suddenly, he turned and kicked the table holding his tools as hard as he could, sending it all crashing to the ground. The sudden motion and noise made Ben and Dean jump suddenly.

"DAMN IT!" screamed Will as loud as he could, before sitting himself down in a chair and burying his face into his gloved hands. He didn't say another word, but the others still observed his harsh breathing as he sat there.

"Is he gonna be OK?" asked Ben quietly, from behind Nick.

"I hope so," sighed the Lieutenant, turning away from the scene. "Not the first time we've lost someone like this…"

"I hate to see him like this as well," muttered the Scottish U.B.C.S, who was still standing nearby. Then he turned towards Nick and the others. "I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to come say hello sooner-"

"Forget it," snapped Nick, interrupting him, before he turned to Dean and Ben, his voice a lowered whisper. "Guys, this is James McCormack, of the Charlie platoon…maybe he's the last one left."

"Everyone else calls me Mac," added the Scottish man, extending his hand to give Ben and Dean a firm greeting handshake. He had a lot of strength in his arms; it was obvious from the handshakes. "And you guys are?"

"I'm Ben, and this is Dean," replied the blonde-haired man as he received the handshake. "We're with the R.P.D…or what's left of it."

"Sorry to hear that," replied Mac with a shake of his head. "Everything's gone to pot in this hell-hole."

"Come on, let's give him some space," added Nick, looking over at Will, still sat in that chair wearing an expression of utter despair.

"Agreed," nodded Mac, as they started to make a move for the door into the corridor.

"Hold on," said Will suddenly from his seat, getting everyone else's attention. By the time they'd turned around, he had walked over to Gary's recent corpse, and was reaching down to the neck area and pulling off something that was attached to a small silver chain, before tossing it to Nick, who deftly caught it with one hand and looked down at the object held in his open palm. It was dog-tag: a means of identifying soldier's corpses on the battlefield.

The name 'G. Schaffer' was printed across the top, along with his date of birth and his blood-type, which Ben and Dean didn't really pay much attention to.

"Another one for the bag," muttered Will, as he turned away again, ripping off his latex gloves with a fair amount of anger in his movements. Nick just nodded as he understood what Will meant, before he turned away once again.

"The bag?" asked Ben, as they moved into the corridor.

"You'll see soon enough," replied Nick cryptically, tucking the dog tag into one of his tactical vest pockets. "Mac, go cover the front with Joel."

"Aye sir," replied the Scot, disappearing into one of the offices, before emerging a short while later armed with a Benelli shotgun, before he disappeared round the corner and down the stairs into the front lobby.

"Come on, follow me," muttered Nick, leading the way into the office that was two doors down, now converted into an impromptu sleeping area, with blankets and sleeping bags laid out on the floor in various places. Standing over by an open window was a tall, lanky man with a bandage wrapped around his head and armed with a modified M4 rifle.

"Hey Rob," cried Nick, getting the man's attention, who turned in the direction of the voice, and when he saw Dean standing there, his face lit up.

"Dean Travers! Is that you?" half-shouted Robert Devlan, as he stepped forward and gave Dean a very hearty handshake. "Good to see you're not dead yet!"

"Yeah, you too," smiled Dean, feeling his hand getting crushed by Devlan's hearty gesture. "Er, this is my friend Ben Campbell, by the way," he then said indicating towards, his friend. "And Ben, this is Robert Devlan."

"Well met," smiled the sniper as he took Ben's hand and gave it a good shake.

"Likewise," nodded Ben, taking note of the man's rather rough appearance.

"I take it Gary's gone now?" the sniper then asked, turning towards Nick.

"Yes," sighed Nick, looking down to the ground, before looking back up and removing the dog-tag from his pocket. "Here, you deal with these, right?"

"Of course," replied Devlan flatly. Without word, he took the dog-tag from Nick, before he then opened one of his pockets and removed a small plastic bag that must have held at least another dozen dog-tags, at least. Some of them were chipped, others were burned slightly or had scratches on them, but a lot of them were splattered with drops of blood. He dropped the tag into the bag, before he sealed it up again and tucked it into his top pocket. His movements seemed too confident, almost as though he didn't care about what happened now.

"A bag of the dead?" asked Ben, to no-one in particular.

"You could say that," explained Nick with a sigh. "Not everyone in the U.B.C.S wears dog-tags, but many of them do…usually the ones who were ex-army. So we took the tags. We feel as though it's better than just leaving them there to fester with the bodies."

"Yeah," agreed Dean, seemingly miles away at the thought of all those dead bodies out there, that would never see home again.

"So how long do you intend to stay here?" asked Ben, changing the subject.

"Until we figure out where to go next."

"Go south out of the city?" ventured Dean. "That's what we were planning-"

"No," snapped Nick. "W've already looked, most of the roads are blocked off, and I'm willing to bet the freeway's largely blocked off as well."

"So we have to go a different way," added Devlan, walking back over to his spot at the window. "Which way? We don't know yet."

"Which is why we need the data on Taylor's PDA," added Nick. "That has maps of the city stored on it."

"Oh yeah, I remember now," nodded Dean.

"But like I said before, that would take a while to download it all. How about you take a break before then? Get settled in, and besides, your friend needs to get to know the rest of us a bit better."

"Sounds good to me," said Ben with a forced smile.

Gary Schaffer's corpse was wrapped in a filthy sheet and dropped in the restroom downstairs with the other corpses. A bit of an insult, but he wouldn't be getting a proper burial anytime soon. Dean watched with a measure of sadness as the body, wrapped in its makeshift shroud, was piled atop of the others in the cramped room, and the door was closed shut behind them.

That done, he turned away as Devlan and Will slowly disappeared back upstairs to attend to whatever it was that had to be done. Dean looked out the front door, at the multitude of corpses lying out in the exposed street. He'd tried counting them all 3 times, and each time he came up with a different number, so he just gave up. Normally, he'd be disgusted to see so many corpses just lying out there, but now it seemed like an everyday occurrence, so he barely took notice anymore.

He took another sip from the bottle of water he was holding. The water was no longer chilled, just lukewarm now, but it was still better than nothing at the moment. He'd already stuffed himself on some potato chips and a wrapped cheese and bacon sandwich, and now he was supplementing his liquid intake. He hadn't had a drink in a long while, and his lips were dried and chapped badly, so the water was a welcome.

"You managing allright?" asked a familiar voice behind him, and he turned to see Ben approaching him from down the stairs, a water bottle held in his own hand, and potato chip crumbs surrounding his mouth. He always was a messy eater when he was hungry. Now his shoulders hung low, showing his incredible fatigue, but he hadn't managed to get some rest yet.

"Good I suppose," replied Dean. "Considering…"

"I know," said Ben, looking down at the ground. "It was lucky these guys found us."

"Better than being by ourselves," observed Dean. "I know they say they work for Umbrella, but they're allegiance doesn't run too deep."

"I gathered that," added Ben, staring out the front door like Dean had been shortly beforehand. "Being dropped off in a cluster-fuck like this- that would piss off a lot of people. Seems as though a lot of people hate Umbrella nowadays."

"You can say that again," muttered Dean darkly, clenching his water bottle tightly.

"OK, we are good to go," announced Nick from the stairs, as he appeared suddenly and sat himself down by the portable computer on the bare desk just nearby. By the looks of things, the data was done transferring onto the hard drive. As Ben and Dean moved closer, Devlan and Will appeared, also gathering around Nick as he hit a few keys, before he stopped abruptly.

"What is it?" asked Dean, looking down at the mercenary leader.

"Uh…I'm no good at this kind of stuff."

An awkward silence descended in the room.

"Well, at least your leadership skills are up to scratch," sniggered Joel from near the front door. Nick ignored that comment as he glanced at Devlan and moved out of the seat.

"You wanna try it instead?" he asked the sniper, who wordlessly sat himself down and hit a few keys, and within a few seconds a window popped up showing a list of folders all marked with various numbers and letters. The sniper just smiled a little as he looked up at the others.

"Good thing this kind of stuff's my forte, eh?" he asked rhetorically, as he started to hit some more keys. Some of the other survivors present smirked a little at Devlan's showing up of his boss in one fell sweep.

"Just pull up the files please," muttered Nick defensively as Devlan went back to typing at a blistering pace.

As the sniper busied himself with the task at hand, Nick picked up a few sheets of paper that had been lying on the desk near to the computer, and held them between his hands. "Dean, you remember Lee, our demolition guy?"

"Yeah," nodded Dean, remembering the bandana-wearing Asian man with an affinity for explosives.

"Well, he's dead," said Nick flatly. "But don't mourn him too much. Cause I shot him."

"What?!" half-cried Dean, nearly causing Devlan to jump out his seat.

"Well he shot Briars," explained Nick, again, to the point. "Then he tried to shoot me."

"Why?" asked Ben, confused. "Did he snap?"

"He seemed perfectly sane when he drew his weapon," added Devlan, still typing away on the keyboard. "He said something about 'I can't help you guys anymore', and then he drew his pistol and shot Briars in the back. He would have shot Nick as well if I hadn't reacted first."

"Jesus," muttered Dean.

"Rob shot him in the shin, so he was still alive, but then he went and took some cyanide tablets before we could ask him what the hell he was thinking," explained Nick. "But then we found this on his body-"

He handed the papers to Dean and Ben, who started looking over them with interest. The familiar Umbrella logo marked the top of the first page, along with a line that read 'For the attention of all Supervisors'.

_Mission requirements: Bravo 16 _

_1. Obtain and secure sample of all the information pertaining to this case. Observe and record combat data on the UBCS. _

_2. Destroy all the evidence including the medical facility that has the medical treatment data. _

_3. Check the guinea pig's ability to accomplish the mission. Once your mission is complete, evacuate the area. Remember that you must not help anyone who is not a supervisor, nor bring anything back that might be traced to where it belongs._

"The hell?" asked Dean, still confused.

"Supervisors?" asked Ben.

"He had this on him as well," said Nick, holding up a small sheet of note paper with a list of handwritten names on them, along with the heading 'Other Supervisors'. "All of these names are of U.B.C.S soldiers from the other platoons…and these last three are from our platoon."

Nick pointed to the last three names on the list. The bottom one read 'L. Myung.'

"So all these men were…supervisors?" asked Ben, putting things together.

"Yeah," answered Nick. "I think they were sent in to supervise how the mission went…or worse."

"This laptop was actually Lee's," mentioned Devlan. "We found it on his body…he was keeping it hidden among the rest of his kit…hidden from the rest of us for some reason. But it looked like he filmed us as well…"

"Filmed?" asked Dean.

"Yeah, filmed us fighting the B.O.W's," explained Nick. "Show them Rob."

With that, Devlan clicked on a link on the laptop's desktop and a small video link appeared n screen. It was only a small window, but it showed a clear enough picture. Dean and Ben saw Nick, Devlan and Joel on screen, standing in the near distance and firing at something off screen. A couple of seconds later, the dead body of a familiar bug monster fell off of a brick wall and landed with a crunch in the middle of the firing circle. The camera angle shifted a little and Will appeared on screen, blasting into another monster that lunged at him, falling on its face as its body was shredded through.

"Pull together! Pull together!" screamed Nick on screen, reloading his weapon. The camera then craned around, to give a side-ways portrait of Lee's face, the bandana-wearing Asian man now stirring Dean's memory.

"I'm fairly sure Umbrella's never created things like this before," he noted, his eyes wide with delight. "They resemble the Chimeras developed at the Spencer estate, but these look as though they were born from cockroaches, not flies. This is incredible!" The glee in his voice was very apparent now. "And it seems as though they feed by draining the blood from their victims…like a mosquito would. It looks as though the virus can infect practically every thing it comes into contact with, so chances are we've barely touched the tip of the iceberg with regards to potential B.O.W species."

"Crazy bastard…taking pride in all of this mess," growled Ben, balling his hands into fists.

"They're always looking to capitalise on every research opportunity," noted Nick. Ben visibly bristled with anger at that remark.

Devlan brought up another video on screen, this one showing a pack of zombies standing out in the middle of the street, just milling about. Then Lee's narrating voice came into ear shot.

"So, on first glance, these 'zombies' look stupid, and that's because the virus only reanimates lower brain functions, which means respiratory and circulatory systems remain unused," the Asian man explained. "So that makes them incredibly hard to kill unless you shoot them in the head. They also seem to be constantly starving, another symptom of the virus I presume, and a means for it to spread itself. I've seen dozens of zombies fighting to feed upon a single corpse, but they get no sustenance from it. So in short, these zombies have limited intelligence, too low to be given any direct orders, but I'm sure the corporation could find a use for them."

"Lee! Move your ass!" shouted Nick from out of sight.

"Coming boss!" shouted Lee back, and the video cut out abruptly.

"'Find a use?'" asked Ben rhetorically. "Those bastards at Umbrella actually want to use those zombies for something? Never mind the fact that this city is fucking overrun!"

There was an awkward silence, broken suddenly by Devlan.

"OK, here we go."

Various items started to appear on the screen. Photographs, some recent and some old and grainy, alongside various scans of letters and reports, and in the top corner, a list of the various files that were ready to be viewed.

"What's this?" asked Ben curiously.

"Like I said before, this is all confidential Umbrella records, that Taylor was able to get a hold of before he left the corporation," explained Nick. "A scientist inside Umbrella was able to help him get access to it. David Gerard was his name."

"An Umbrella researcher sold his own company's dirty secrets to a complete stranger?" asked Ben as he continued to digest the information on the screen. "That must have taken a lot of guts."

"You could say that," replied Nick, turning around. "About a week after Taylor left Umbrella, Dr. Gerard washed up on a beach in Miami somewhere, several bullets in the back of his head."

"Damn…" muttered Dean.

"And then that's when I met Taylor in the U.B.C.S," continued Nick. "Of course, he'd changed his name by then, and he asked for my help, and Devlan's help, in trying to take the corporation down. And we were only too happy to oblige after everything we'd seen while working for them."

"This whole situation gives us a good cover," explained Devlan, still typing. "The corporation thinks we're probably all dead by now…perfect chance to expose their corrupt asses though."

"Show them the picture, Rob," ordered Nick, and Devlan bought up an old-looking grainy photograph and then full-sized it on screen.

It showed three young men, all well-dressed in black robes and mortarboards normally worn by graduating university students. They were stood on a green lawn in front of a lavish-looking building, and all of them had smiles on their faces. The one on the left had shortly-cropped black hair and an air of authority about him, while the one in the middle had short-cropped blonde hair and broad shoulders. The man on the right had long black hair though, a slight build and almost-effeminate features, and looked oddly out of place alongside the other two.

"Who are they?" asked Ben, staring at the picture.

"It all started with these three," explained Nick. "The original founders of Umbrella: Ozwell Spender, Edward Ashford, and James Marcus."

"Ozwell Spencer," muttered Ben, recognising the name. "He's Umbrella's CEO, isn't he?"

"Yeah," nodded Will, speaking for the first time in a long while. "The only remaining founder of the company as well."

"This picture was taken sometime in the 1950's, when all three men graduated with a PhD in biological degrees. It was when they first met, and when things were set in motion…" explained Nick, moving on into his overall explanation of why Raccoon City had gone belly-up…

**September 27****th**** 1809 hours, somewhere outside Raccoon County…**

The rest stop was practically empty, save for a big rig trucker who had stopped off to recharge his batteries on cheap coffee, and two other men, both of them young, in their mid-20's, sat at the far end of the diner's counter, both of them pushing and jostling with one another loudly. Their names were Travis Pattinson and Cameron Arnold, and they were both from Reiverview, a small town in Virginia.

Travis was blonde-haired and blue-eyed, and of muscular build, rather like a professional football player, and he was wearing faded dark jeans, a light green t-shirt that looked as though it were in good need of a wash, and a battered grey jacket that he'd had since high school years before, and it still fitted him well. Many of his friends and his family considered him a Jock in appearance and character, and he was something of a ladies man as well, always looking to try and make the moves on any nearby females. For a living, he was one of the star players on the town's local football team.

His companion, on the other hand, was more of a scholarly character: Cameron had studied history at university, and he spent about half his time reading up on various periods of history and undertaking various small history projects, and the other half time he spent on learning to play various musical instruments, mainly the piano and the drums. He wore thin-framed glasses, and behind those he had dark green eyes and dark hair, cut short at the moment, but he usually let it grown a bit longer. He was wearing blue jeans and a dark long-sleeved shirt, underneath a light green jacket. He worked as a librarian for a living.

They were both friends of Dean Travers and Ben Campbell, having gone to the same schools as one another, and grown up in the same town. Even as they all went their own separate ways, they still kept in touch with one another, and in some cases it would lead to huge road trips as Travis and Cameron traversed half the U.S.A to visit their friends in Raccoon City, which was what they were in the middle of now. They'd been travelling these last few days, staying off in motels as late as possible, and then moving on first thing in the morning, to get there in good time. And now they were just outside Raccoon County, about half an hour away from Raccoon City itself.

"So, how long have we gone without sleep today?" asked Travis, smirking before he took a sip of his black coffee.

"Oh, I think-" replied Cameron, looking at his watch and smiling a little- "about 13 hours now."

"Damn! Is that a new record?" asked the blonde-haired jock.

"I think so," moaned Cameron, lying his head down on the counter and staring at his cup of coffee.

"Oh come on dude, try and stay awake," replied Travis, giving his companion a nudge. "You're the navigator, after all!"

"I'm not used to surviving off 6 hours of sleep a day," Cameron replied with another moan, shifting in his seat. "I don't know how you do it."

"It takes time, my friend," explained Travis. "It takes time." He then down his coffee in one gulp and made eye contact with the waitress behind the counter. "I'll have another one, thanks darlin'."

"Sure," smiled the blonde-haired girl, already moving for the coffee machine.

BRING! BRING!

The two young men sat bolt upright as the sound hit them out of the blue, and Cameron was drawn to the cell phone vibrating in his pocket.

"Who the hell could that be?" asked Travis, looking at his friend.

"It's Lisa," answered Cameron, taking note of the caller ID shown on the glowing blue screen. "Probably just checking up on us." She was Dean's little sister, and whenever the two friends went away she was always ringing them up constantly to check up on them.

"Good old Lisa, always good for checking up on us like that," smiled Travis, looking back to see where his coffee was.

Cameron hit the answer button and held the phone to his ear. "Hello there," he said, trying to sound as smooth as he could.

"Cameron, where the hell have you been?!" snapped a prickly voice on the other end.

"We've been driving, of course," replied Cameron with a wider grin. "Did you miss us?"

"Quit joking about you fool!" snapped Lisa back, sounding fairly distressed. "I've called you about 4 times already!"

"Really?" replied Cameron. "Maybe we were driving through some low reception areas, since my phone hasn't rang for ages. What's the matter?"

"Have you seen the news?"

"No, we haven't had a chance to-"

"Well maybe you should watch it for a change!" Lisa shot back, sounding as distressed as before. "It's all over the channels!"

"Er, dude," said Travis, grabbing his friend's shoulder and pointing up to the small TV set hanging above the counter. It was showing an urgent news bulletin, and he asked the waitress to turn up the volume so they could hear it better.

"Oh boy…" whispered Cameron as he watched the scenes unfolding before him, the phone still pressed to his ear.

The banner at the bottom of the screen read 'RACCOON CITY QUARANTINED', as a female voice over provided details.

"It has been nearly two days since Raccoon City has been quarantined, and there is still no answer for what has occurred within the city for such drastic measures as these to be taken. The official word from Raccoon Mayor, Michael Warren, who was able to escape the city before the quarantine was erected, is that there has been a toxic waste spillage at the sewage treatment facility within the city, and the entire city has been quarantined to prevent the radiation from spreading beyond the city limits. Unfortunately, this also means that a majority of the population is still trapped inside Raccoon City."

"Holy shit!" cursed Travis, taking this news in.

"You can say that again," murmured Cameron, rising from his seat. "Dean and Ben could be stuck in the middle of all that."

The scene switched to that of a blockade of the road into Raccoon City, where picket fences and barbed wire, manned by armed soldiers in gas masks and biohazard gear, prevented anyone from entering or leaving the city. In the far distance, the outline of Raccoon City itself could be seen, several trails of black smoke rising into the sky. The scene then changed again to show dozens of refugees who were able to get out of the city ahead of time, crowded into large tents filled with rows of medical cots, as army doctors tended to the wounds on some of them. Most of the refugees were crying or screaming, coated in blood, but some of them just stared blankly into the camera, their eyes telling a thousand words.

The voice over continued. "Refugee centres such as this have appeared all around the city limits, but the volume of those arriving means that the military is being stretched to breaking point, and by the refugees' own admission, the cause of this disaster isn't a toxic waste spillage."

The scene changed to show a frail-looking blonde woman, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and tears staining her face. She started to talk into the microphone, telling a tale of woe.

"I was just…doing my morning shopping when I heard the screams. And next thing I knew…people were, were coming out of the alleyways in the street and attacking people! They weren't attacking them…they…they were eating them. Eating them alive! While they lay there screaming their lungs out!"

"Are you watching?" asked Lisa's voice in Cameron's ear. He'd forgotten he was still holding his phone to his ear.

"I-I-I am," stammered Cameron, unable to believe what he was seeing and hearing. "Jesus!"

"I haven't been able to get a hold of Dean or Ben!" wailed Lisa, sounding seriously upset now. "I think they might be-"

"Don't talk that way!" snapped Cameron, looking at Travis. "We're about half an hour outside the city, so we'll go there and find them. They could have made it out and they're in one of the refugee stations for all we know. We'll go look for them now.""

"You will?" sobbed Lisa. "You'll find them for me?"

"I promise! Right, Travis?"

"Hell yeah," nodded his friend, getting to his feet. "We should get going now."

"Lisa, we gotta go now, but I swear I'll ring you soon, allright?" reasoned Cameron, already moving towards the door.

"OK," whispered the voice on the other end of the line. "Don't take too long. And Travis?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you so much."

"It's no problem," replied Travis honestly. "Anything for the sister of an old friend."

"I appreciate it," came the reply. "Now go find my brother!"

And then the dial tone was heard, and both men were nearly out the door.

"Hey!" cried the young waitress, standing behind the counter and holding Travis' coffee he had just ordered. The blonde-haired man dashed back to the counter and slapped a $10 dollar bill down.

"Keep the change!" he cried over his shoulder as he sprinted out the door, closely followed by Cameron. Both of them dashed over to Travis' old pick-up truck, throwing themselves in and pulling on their seatbelts as Travis fired up the engine.

Almost as soon as the truck had spluttered into life, a trio of huge trucks came barrelling past, travelling at full speed towards Raccoon City. They were all painted in forest camouflage and each was carrying a dozen fully-armed soldiers in their flat beds. Behind them came three jeeps and a supply truck, all travelling at full speed. Chances were that they had come from the nearby Ragathon Army Base, possibly to assist with the situation in the city.

"Damn…" muttered Cameron, observing the trucks going past.

"Let's go," replied Travis sternly, as they pulled onto the main road and tore away down the highway at full speed, towards a city wrecked by Armageddon.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: ****OK, so I did something a little different here. The large sections of text that appear in italics show where Nick is narrating the story of Umbrella's past deeds and sins to Ben and Dean as they are shown everything that had been collected on Taylor's PDA device. So hopefully you should be able to follow it along for the most part. **

**But anyways, here we go again...R+R as usual please. **

Chapter 17: The Root of All Evil

**September 27****th**** 1809 hours**

_It started sometime in the 1950's:__ Spencer, Marcus and Ashford travelled to Africa to aid with outbreaks of the Ebola Virus that was devastating the country at the time, leaving, thousands dead within a short space of time. Ebola was pretty much the worst virus known to man at this point in time and little was known about it. So their research would be an important instrument in combating the outbreaks, and to reduce potential future threats. _

_But something unexpected happened. When he was examining what was assumed to be Ebola victims in Sudan, Spencer found something in the bodies. It was very similar in biological structure, but it wasn't Ebola. He'd stumbled across an entirely new virus, right in the midst of a deadly outbreak. Spencer took a few samples of this new virus and showed it to Marcus and Ashford. This new virus had other effects as well, it was discovered. It had the ability to regenerate dead cells, essentially being able to heal. But that was only half of the story._

_This virus was able to mutate the genetic code of anything it infected, essentially turning them into monsters…_

"Hold on," said Dean, interrupting Nick's little story. "This virus…where the hell did it come from?"

"God knows," replied Devlan. "We've read over every bit of information on here, and there isn't a concrete answer. It just…appeared."

"Deadly viruses don't just appear out of thin air," reasoned Ben, folding his arms before him.

"This one apparently did," replied Devlan.

_Anyways, as I was saying…this virus was essentially able to turn normal creatures into mutants: the stuff of nightmares. And Spencer had hit upon a new idea: bio-weapons sold to the highest bidder. Warfare's always been brutal, so the next step from rifles and rockets seemed to be mutant creatures. They were stronger and faster than humans were, at any rate. But that's when cracks appeared in the three friend's relations. _

_Ashford wanted to use the virus' regenerative abilities to heal and cure, to help those with terminal conditions. But Marcus and Spencer wanted to go the bio-weapon development route, and they all came to a stalemate. In the end, they could only continue with their research once Ashford passed away in 1967. The other two took the virus Spencer had discovered, and refined it into the 'Proginator Virus', the basis of all their other work, and they also founded the Umbrella Corporation around this time. _

"You mean Umbrella was founded on the principal of bio-weaponry?" asked Ben in suspended disbelief.

"Pretty much," nodded Nick. "Don't be fooled by all their 'helping the human race' spiel: it's all bull."

"Bastards," growled Ben under his breath. Dean noticed his friend's mood and looked at him with concern.

_Incidentally, __Umbrella chose to set up its base of operations in Raccoon City. They contributed a lot of funding to the city's construction, which also meant that they were able to build a number of secret facilities in and around the city. The main research lab was located at the Spencer estate in the forest outside the city, the same estate that was destroyed back in July. On the outside, it was Ozwell Spencer's formal home, but inside it was where the bulk of Umbrella's research took place. There was also a nearby training facility for Umbrella's management staff, also used as a research centre. _

_With this 'Proginator virus', they started doing experiments on various animals, including humans. Most animals subjected to tests developed increased muscle mass, increased aggression, and gigantism in some cases. But the mutations were too inconsistent to create truly effective bio-weapons, and in the case of human test subjects, every one subjected to the virus didn't live very long, since they couldn't handle the sudden mutations._

"Here," said Devlan, clicking on a few links, and soon several grainy pictures came into view of various 'Proginator Subjects', as the titles implied. One looked like a small ape with white fur, but patches of its skin were gone, replaced by bulging muscle tissue, whilst its fangs had elongated into viscous-looking blades and its eyes had a maddened look about them. Other pictures showed what looked like some kind of cockroach, except it was at least twice the size of a human, with beady eyes and a considerable amount of drool dripping from its blood-stained mandibles. The last one showed something that was already familiar to Dean: a huge spider, with a bulbous yellow and black striped body, and thick bristles of hair covering its entire body area.

"Looks familiar," muttered Dean.

"Geez…" was all Ben could say.

"You ain't seen the half of it," announced Devlan, closing the images and messing around with the files a little more. Research reports discussing the effects of the Proginator virus, addressed to Ozwell Spencer, flitted into view, and important sections of these reports had been highlighted in marker pen. Mainly, it announced that they had to find a way to get around the virus' "unstable properties", and that research had hit a dead-end.

"This virus was unstable to be too effective, right?" asked Dean.

"Yeah," agreed Will. "When injected into a host, it mutates the genetic code instantly, but you can't always be sure what that mutation would be. And the other problem was that the Proginator virus was highly photosensitive: any test subjects exposed to direct sunlight usually suffered severe burns, so most B. created from it were practically useless in daylight settings."

"Yeah, but Umbrella found a way around that unfortunately…"

_While all this research was going on, James Marcus had been appointed head of the management training facility, but he cared little for the company. He just wanted to do his research in peace. He took the Proginator, and looked for a way to stabilise it. He even went as far as to use his own staff as guinea pigs in an effort to get a good result, but eventually it paid off. Sometime in the__ late 1970's, he mixed the Proginator with the DNA of a leech. Don't know how that would work, but that removed the Proginator's photosensitivity and also stabilised it. Marcus had created a new strain of virus, one that would be the basis of Umbrella's future work…_

"The T-Virus," announced Will, in a dramatic fashion.

"T-Virus?" asked Ben. "What kind of name is that?"

"It's what caused everything in this city," replied Nick, walking around to face the door. "Possibly the deadliest biological weapon in known history, and it's been unleashed on this poor city. Umbrella must be loving this…"

"The T-Virus was very different to the Proginator in a lot of ways," explained Will, waling into the middle of the room, making gestures with his hands. "For one, it's highly contagious: a single drop of it in a city's water supply would destroy it within a few days-"

"I think we can see that," growled Dean bitterly, cutting Will off. "I've seen what it can do. We both have." Ben just nodded grimly, before Will continued, noting the discontent in the men's voices.

"-the new virus also had considerable regenerative abilities. It could regenerate dead tissue cells, to the extent that it could bring the dead back to life…but the reanimated host would have greatly reduced brain functions as a result. Only lower brain and motor functions would be retained, at the expense of circulatory and respiratory systems."

"Which explains why infected hosts are so hard to kill, unless you shoot them in the head?" asked Ben. "Makes sense."

"You said it could bring the dead back to life," asked Dean curiously, "but what about still living people? Why do they become zombies?"

"The virus essentially kills off living tissue and then reanimates it," explained Will. "It attaches itself to the RNA in cell tissue and induces severe necrosis, giving the impression of a rotted corpse. And there's more-"

"As if this virus couldn't get any worse…" mumbled Ben, shaking his head.

"-the virus also induces incredible aggression and hunger in any host if infects, forcing them to seek out and feed upon anything still living it can find. T-Virus hosts aren't essentially hungry, that's just a vector for the virus to spread itself as far as possible."

"Makes sense for a deadly bioweapon," reasoned Dean. "What's better than a deadly virus that kills anyone it infects? A virus which makes its victims move around at will and infect more people."

"Exactly," said Will, pointing at Dean. "This new virus was much more compatible with humans, as well as other animals as well, so it pretty much overshadowed the Proginator research."

Devlan bought up another file onto the screen: a report from James Marcus, addressed to Ozwell Spencer, dated September of 1977.

_Dearest Ozwell,__,_

_I apologise for being out of touch for a long time, but my research was my top priority, as you know. But that doesn't matter now, for I have made an incredible discovery: yes, all my hard research has paid off at last! I was able to splice a sample of the Proginator with the DNA of one of my leeches, and something astounding happened._

_The virus' composition changed! It changed, Ozwell! We've been working for years on trying to find some way to stabilise its composition, and I've achieved just that! I've already taken a closer look at the sample, and it's changed to the point where it can be considered an entirely new virus! And this new virus seems to be more contagious, and it has a more viable effect upon human test subjects as well. We must meet at once, so we can discuss where to go next with the Company's research, and so I can show you the findings of my initial tests with this new virus. I can scarcely hold my excitement!_

_With kindest regards, James._

"Wow," was all Ben could say.

"After that was sent, Marcus held his findings back," explained Will. "He was the one who'd created the T-Virus after all, and he tried to use it to depose Spencer, take all the glory for himself type of thing. Shortly afterwards, he disappeared. No-one knows where he went, but we can all guess as to what actually happened to him…"

"Capped?" suggested Dean.

Will nodded. "With Marcus out of the picture, research on the T-Virus took off. Most of the testing was carried out at the Spencer estate, headed by a research team that included among them a William Birkin…"

"I've heard of him too," interrupted Ben. "He was Umbrella's youngest researcher, wasn't he, when he first joined? Back in 1978 I think it was?"

"Yeah," nodded Nick, folding his arms in front of him. "He was as obsessive of his research as Marcus was. Most of Umbrella's best scientists were. A dangerous character trait, if you ask me…"

"But anyhow," interrupted Devlan, moving the conversation along, "after Marcus disappeared, the T-Virus research was headed up by this team of researchers…" He clicked on another link and a picture of 5 people, dressed in white lad coats and standing in what looked like a laboratory, all with cold metallic tables and work spaces decorated with all kinds of experimental apparatus.

But Ben and Dean's attention was drawn to one of the figures shown in the photo. Most of the people were smartly dressed, but the one on the far left stood out like a sore thumb, what with the dark sunglasses he was wearing and the slicked-back blonde hair…

"Wesker!" muttered Ben loudly. He and Dean would recognise Albert Wesker's face anywhere.

"You know him?" asked Devlan, giving Ben a look of disbelief, a look shared by Will and Nick.

"We both did," answered Dean. "He was the founder and captain of Raccoon City's S.T.A.R.S team. And you're saying he used to work for Umbrella as well?!"

"Yep," nodded Nick, matter-of-fact. "He left Umbrella so he could join Raccoon's police force…and help them in their cover-up operations."

_  
Damned snake-in-the-grass, _thought Dean darkly. Now that he thought of it, Wesker always mystified him. He never talked about where he had originally come from, and the fact he always wore those sunglasses, even indoors, added to that mystery. Also, he always seemed so stuck-up: he carried an air of arrogance with him, and always seemed to look down on the other members of the R.P.D. Dean always thought of him as snob, one that needed taking down a notch or two.

"What happened to him?" asked Nick.

"He's dead," said Ben, with a degree of glee in his voice. "The surviving S.T.A.R.S members said he was killed on their mission…and that he was the one who betrayed them in the first place."

"Makes sense," mused Devlan, closing the picture link. "Umbrella still needed combat data for the things they'd created at the estate."

"Things?"

_Yes, __'things'. As I said, Umbrella really stepped up their research throughout the 80's and 90's. The research labs at the estate grew in size as they acquired more funding to seek out how far they could push the T-Virus' research. Most creatures infected were transformed into undead versions of themselves, while others, mainly spiders and other kinds of bugs, grew in size to a gigantic extent. But the real fruit of their labour was an attempt to create a 'Tyrant'._

_Tyrants: Umbrella's ultimate goal, a human transformed into a biological super-weapon, a monster capable of receiving orders and causing unwanted amounts of destruction and death wherever it went. The 'T' in T-Virus actually stands for Tyrant, as it happens. But the problem was finding someone compatible to become a Tyrant. Most people infected with the T-Virus became regular zombies, but there's a 1 in 10 million chance that a host has the required genetic code to be able to become a Tyrant instead. As you might imagine with those odds, Umbrella had a hard time finding viable test subjects, but they did have a limited amount of success…_

Devlan bought up another letter on the screen, a report to a '', based at 'Raccoon Research Laboratory'. It was dated September of 1989.

_Dear Dr. Birkin,_

_We have succeeded in finding a viable test subject who is able to become a Tyrant. He's just some drifter, a homeless wretch that won't be missed by anyone, who we picked up on the streets of Chicago last week. As expected, he was against being given the virus, but a hefty dose of sedatives allowed us to administer the virus with little fuss. _

_There weren't any external changes for a few days, but internally the virus re-wrote his DNA, to the extent that his skin tissue was able to repair itself when damaged, and even become resistant to some types of attack, such as blades and small arms fire. After about a week, the serious external changes became noticeable: the subject increased in size and muscle mass, his aggression increased considerably, and he also developed his own personal defence organs: large bony claws developed on the subjects left hand, which are strong enough to slice through even reinforced steel. _

_Suffice to say, the subject is incredibly difficult to control: we have lost several researchers and security staff trying to keep the subject under control. Even if we keep it heavily sedated, there's no telling if it would be possible to consider being able to control the subject. Regrettably, this might be a failure. We've come so far, so are we doomed to failure at the first hurdle? _

_I request your presence here so we are able to discuss this in a more personal and detailed manner. _

_With kindest regards, M. Chrackhorn._

Devlan bought up another image, and Ben and Dean balked at what they were seeing.

It was a photo of something being kept in a huge storage tube, at least 15 feet tall and filled with a clear fluid. Inside the tube was something that defied logical law, something that should have never existed. It looked human, albeit a human that stood well over 10 feet tall, its skin tone a pallid white colour. It was completely naked, and areas of its flesh were covered in large tears and ugly growths, particularly on its thick arms and legs. Its heart, a large, crimson blot against the pallid white of its flesh, was on the outside of its body, thick arteries sprouting off from the organ and back underneath the skin. Where its left hand should have been were a wicked set of claws instead, extending like sickles from where the fingers should have been. On its right hand, more claws were beginning to develop, the tips of large bony spikes starting to extend from the fingertips and the side of its hand. And its face…its face was bald, but forever locked into a demonic grin, the lips peeled back to reveal fang-like teeth, and there was a murderous look in its eyes.

"That…that's a Tyrant?" asked Ben, looking rather pale.

"Yeah," nodded Nick. "Ugly fucker, isn't it?"

"They were actually making things like that?" asked Dean, almost dumbfounded.

"Well, they were trying to," explained Will, sitting himself on one of the chairs near to the desk now. "Like we said, the chance of someone becoming a Tyrant was very slim. The one you're looking at was the first of its kind, a prototype, so to speak. But whatever happened to it, we don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" asked Ben, turning on the medic. "I assume you don't misplace a freak like that?"

Will shrugged. "Nothing in those files shows what happened to it. I think it's safe to assume that they were able to create a more stable Tyrant specimen, and just discarded the original."

"Jesus," whispered Dean, thinking of a row of these so-called 'Tyrants', a wall of sheer pallid-coloured muscle, armed with lethal clawed hands, advancing upon an army of heavily-armed human soldiers, and tearing them into bloody ribbons. He thought zombies and other mutants were bad, but the thought of monsters like that made his blood run cold. If Umbrella were creating things like that-

But he also thought of the chance of the corporation just discarding this failed 'prototype' version like it were nothing. If anything, it made them look even more callous than before, throwing away a human life as though it were just a minor inconvenience.

"But that wasn't all they were creating," observed Devlan, bringing up a few more photos on the screen.

One of them was instantly familiar to Dean: a Doberman, reduced to a rotting husk of its former self, its eyes a glossy white and areas of its body muscle exposed to human sight.

"Looks familiar," grumbled Dean sarcastically, staring at the picture, titled with a single word: 'Cerberus'.

"Sounds appropriate somehow," said Ben, echoing Dean's sarcasm. Other pictures showed creatures that didn't seem to be born from logical processes, but had been bought into this world by Umbrella's 'research'.

One picture showed a creature that bore some resemblance to the sickle-clawed giant bugs the survivors had previously encountered, except this creature was smaller in bulk and it stood on its hind legs rather than crawling on its belly, and its face had more of a human appearance as well, with burning white eyes and mandibles that curved out from where its lower jaw should have been. The title read 'Chimera', the name of a mythical beast that was supposedly formed from the parts of several animals, but this creature just seemed like a hellish blend of human and some kind of bug.

The next picture showed something that wasn't quite as hideous as the 'Chimera', but it was still enough to send shivers up one's spine. It seemed to resemble a cross between a frog and a human, a hunched but powerful-looking creature, with skin covered in green scales, and a squat, compact-looking head with yellow eyes and a mouth filled with sharpened fangs. Where its fingers should have been were long, bony claws, each at least three inches long, and its feet were armed with similar appendages. Its mouth was opened, screaming a cry that would make no sound in picture format. The title simply read 'Hunter', a name that seemed terrifyingly appropriate considering its appearance. Each creature name was followed by a combination of two capital letters and a two-digit number: possibly an identification number for each creature.

"One of these got Gary," indicated Will, pointing at the reptilian thing, this 'Hunter' shown in the last picture. "Slashed him across the stomach: his guts were practically falling out afterwards. Miracle I was able to save him the first time around. We ended up super gluing him back together."

Someone uttered a low curse. It was probably Ben, Dean guessed: the voice sounded familiar. Nick continued talking.

_This work into the T-Virus continued for years after Marcus' disappearance, right up to the present day. But while the U.S branch of Umbrella worked on creating B.O.W's as powerful as the Tyrant, Umbrella Europe were undertaking their own individual projects. They wanted a B.O.W that had intelligence, once that could actually be given orders and could be controlled to a certain degree, rather than acting like a mindless, destructive beast. _

_They managed to create a variant of the T-Virus sometime in the late 1980's: the NE-T Virus, which unlike the original virus, would leave the brain of its host untouched, therefore leaving some kind of capacity for controlling the B.O.W in question. At the same time, they had created something called the 'Nemesis Parasite'…something designed to infect a host and mutate it into a powerful B.O.W that could then be capable of retaining its intellect so it could receive orders…so the NE-T Virus and the parasite were designed to work in tandem together to create the ultimate B.O.W. But the chances of finding a compatible host was even slimmer compared to that of finding viable Tyrant specimens. _

"Why's that?" asked Ben, breaking Nick's monologue.

"Because the parasite tended to cause mutations so severe that they often killed the host before it could take full control over the host's thought processes," explained the U.B.C.S officer. "But when Umbrella's U.S branch found out about this, they requested a sample of the Nemesis parasite, and got one delivered to the Spencer Estate…eventually. Suffice to say Umbrella Europe didn't like just giving away one of their treasured creations so readily."

Devlan bought up yet another typed report, addressed from a 'B. Whitmond' of the 'Spencer Estate Research Team'. It was dated the June of 1988.

_Dear Sirs,_

_As you are all aware, we received a sample of the Nemesis parasite from Umbrella Europe last month, and we have deliberated long and hard over which subject to use the parasite on. After all, it took some serious string-pulling from Mr. Spencer himself to get the delivery approved, and the European branch are always so damned tight-assed, as you are all aware. _

_Eventually, we found an ideal specimen: the woman. It just had to be: she's been at the estate for longer than most of us can remember. Only Spencer knows for exactly how long, but no-one even dares to question him about her origins and her original name. But what we do know is, is that she has been subjected to practically every virus the corporation has ever discovered or created, as far back as our initial tests with the Proginator Virus. And yet she still lives. She's definitely something else entirely: she should have died years ago. So we decided to implant the parasite into her body._

_But the unexpected happened: the parasite entered her brain and simply vanished. We have no idea where it disappeared to, or if even caused any further mutations to her body. Even our most advanced instruments and equipment were unable to detect any changes in her body. _

_I regret to say this, but it seems that our venture with the Nemesis parasite has hit a dead end. Umbrella Europe won't be pleased to hear of this occurrence, but we have no choice but to inform them of recent events. _

_With regards, B. Whitmond._

Devlan scrolled down, to show another report, written by the same person, and addressed to the same recipient. It was dated a couple of weeks after the original report.

_Dear Sirs,_

_There have__ been some unexpected developments, with regards to the test involving the Nemesis parasite. It is true that the parasite did disappear when it entered our test subject's body, but some days after this happened, changes occurred in her body, the first recorded changes within her body in years. _

_Mutations have occurred, but these mutations have been too rapid to be able to chronicle all of them: but one thing for sure is that she seems to be healing herself through mutations. When we cut or burn her, her body mutates some more, most likely as a way of healing. But we still don't know why this is: did the parasite cause these new mutations, or was this simply because one of the earlier viruses required a period of incubation before their full effects would become apparent?_

_Either way, more research needs to be done. Doctor Birkin requests that he makes this his priority project, and that research into the T-Virus is taken over by the rest of the research team. We eagerly await your reply on this matter._

_With kindest regards, B. Whitmond. _

"Woman? What woman?" asked Dean curiously.

"We don't know," replied Nick honestly. "Probably one of Umbrella's test subjects. Like I said before, they had a habit of taking random people off of the street to use in their tests…from all over the world. They always took people who wouldn't be missed."

Ben sat by, glowering silently. Dean recognised the look on his friend's face: it was a look of barely concealed rage.

"We don't know anything else about what they might have found during their research," added Will. "Taylor only managed to get a hold of records as far back as last year. Of course, Umbrella might have cooked up some other horrible creation since then. They're always busy, those bastards…"

Ben just shook his head in disgust.

"But Umbrella had another success with the Nemesis parasite," explained Devlan, "and perhaps you've seen it running around the city?"

"A what?" asked Ben.

"You know, big, dressed in black, one eye, has a serious anger management issue?"

Ben and Dean only nodded in agreement. You'd never forget running into a thing such as this 'Nemesis' anytime soon. Ben still had the sore bruises from that last encounter.

"Why would something like that be in the city though?" asked Dean curiously.

"Whatever it is, I'd rather not know," replied Nick. "But anyways…"

_There were__ other outbreaks, of course. Very small scale of course, usually only infecting a single isolated research facility or the immediate area. Most of these outbreaks could have been averted of course, but there was always someone in Umbrella who saw an opportunity for black-mail…or some animal-right activists who stormed a facility to free the poor animals being experimented on…and getting more than they bargained for._

_And I was on the front-line of some of those…_

Devlan bought up another video file, and the opening image showed a dark, industrial corridor, being traversed by a small group of men in the familiar U.B.C.S fatigues. Two of them lead the way, flashlights attached to the underside of their M4A1 rifles, while the rest covered the sides of the corridor. The camera bobbed as it moved along, probably attached to the shoulder of one of the squad members. The date in the top right hand corner of the screen read '01/12/1997'.

One of the front guard turned, and Dean realised it was actually Nick, albeit more clean-looking, and without his beret. The man next to him was a tall, well-built brute with short blonde hair and icy blue eyes. He started pointing down the corridor and two other soldiers peeled away from the main group and down a side corridor. Dean guessed that the blonde-haired man was the unit commander.

"That was Lieutenant Sullivan," pointed out Nick, noting Dean's interest. "He was the leader of Delta platoon, and I'd just joined the U.B.C.S then. This was my first mission as it happened: contact had been lost with an isolated Umbrella facility in the North Pole, and we'd been dispatched to investigate what had happened."

Dean nodded as he turned his attention back to the video. The squad advanced down the corridor, coming to a point where a small fire had engulfed a side room to the left. They passed by, up to a T-junction ahead.

"Halt!" cried Nick suddenly, raising his closed fist. The camera juddered to a halt.

The torch-beams highlighted a form huddled against the wall directly ahead of the squad. It was a man, clad in a white researcher's coat, leaning heavily against the steel pipes lining the wall, his head down, his dark hair disguising his facial features.

"Sir! Are you hurt?" called Sullivan, lowering his weapon slightly. No reply came from the huddled man. "Sir, we're here to get you out of here, we're with the U.B.C.S!"

Still no reply. The man continued to lean against the wall, swaying slightly. He made no effort to acknowledge the presence of the U.B.C.S soldiers.

"Right, Johnson, get in there and check up on him!" Sullivan then barked, pointing at Nick and then towards the silent researcher. Nick looked up, a little lost, but then she slung his rifle over his shoulder and gingerly approached the man until he was just a few feet away.

"Sir?" he asked, reaching a hand out to touch the man's shoulder.

It happened so quickly: in about half a second of Nick touching the man's shoulder, he suddenly whirled about, his hair whipping about and his filthy teeth ready to take a bite out of Nick's face. Luckily, Nick pulled himself back in time and the teeth chomped down on thin air, but he fell onto his back as a result, quickly scrambling backwards as the insane man towered over him, ready to reach down and take another bite.

BANG!

A sudden gunshot rang out, making Dean jump. The insane man in the video staggered back, blood spraying from a shoulder wound. Sullivan stood off to the side of the screen, clutching a SIG Pro handgun.

"Jesus!" cried Nick, scrambling back and getting to his feet, but Sullivan's face remained grim and drawn. The wounded man had staggered back into the wall, but he was quickly advancing again, arms outstretched, the torch light illuminating his horrific visage for all to see.

His face was plastered in blood, his lips torn away to reveal his blackened and broken teeth. A pair of spectacles, the lenses shattered, hung off of the bridge of his nose, and his eyes…his eyes were plain white, no trace of any human emotion behind them, just the inhuman hunger that all of them had become all too familiar with.

"Holy shit!" cried a voice from out of view.

"This is for real man!" cried another.

"Yes, yes it is!" shouted Sullivan back, shooting the advancing zombie between the eyes. It fell back against the wall for the last time, leaving a bloody smear down the steel surface.

"Contacts! Contacts at six o' clock!" cried another desperate voice, sounding muffled as it came from behind the camera's position.

The camera wrenched around suddenly, creating a nauseating effect as it faced back down the corridor. Muzzle flash lit up the video screen for a split second, the roar of an M4 rifle drowning out everything else. The bright light faded away; long enough to reveal the shambling figures advancing down the corridor towards the squad, most of them clad in white researcher coats or the black uniforms of security personnel. Their faces wore blank expressions.

Gunfire shredded through the zombie's bodies, but they didn't fall.

"Keep it together people!" shouted Sullivan's voice from behind the camera man. "Head shots, remember that!"

Gunfire resumed, and this time it was much more co-ordinated, as heads erupted into fountains of gore and brain matter, and soon enough the advancing undead crumpled to the cold floor, crimson pumping from their ruined heads. The last one had barely hit the ground when the camera was wrenched about again and found itself staring into Nick's face. It was slashed with barely-contained fear.

"Get the hell out! Now!" he screamed into the camera-man's face, and then he was already running past, back down the corridor. The popping of gunfire was heard as the camera man turned to face down in the direction they'd been facing, covering Lieutenant Sullivan as the man with the icy blue eyes back-pedalled down the passage, firing at shadowy forms rounding the corners ahead.

"Where the hell did they come from?!" screamed a voice from out of shot, a hint of a French accent in his voice.

"The gunfire drew them out!" cried Sullivan back, firing a burst of bullets into the face of a tall, lanky zombie. "Keep your senses sharp, they can come from anywhere!"

As if to emphasise his point, there was a sudden crashing sound, and the camera whirled around in time to see one of the soldiers dragged down underneath the weight of at least three zombies that had smashed their way out of a side room they hadn't checked properly. The man struggled madly, even as the monsters lowered their heads and sank their teeth into his unprotected flesh, tearing bloody chunks out of his shoulder, ribs and face. He thrashed around, screaming his head off, until a bite to his throat silenced him forever.

"Holy shit!" cried another U.B.C.S soldier, as he fired on full-auto into the undead feeding frenzy, shredding them all into bloody ribbons in seconds. The camera view jostled around, eventually cutting out into a screen full of static, the audience left staring at the image for several more seconds.

"Jesus…" muttered Dean.

Nick just nodded in a slow and painful manner. "We were told it was going to be another training simulation, but it was anything but. We knew what Umbrella's research had created, but seeing them face to face for the first time…that was another matter altogether."

The image changed again, to show a pure white landscape as far as the eye could see. In the near distance, the silhouettes of several buildings could be made out, partially obscured by a veil of falling snow. The camera then turned, to show the bedraggled unit of U.B.C.S soldiers that had previously been on screen. All of them, aside from Sullivan, were sprawled out on the snow, wearing expressions of shock.

"What the hell man?" half-shouted one of them, "What the fuck was that?!"

"No-one said anything about their being an actual outbreak!" protested another one, a nervous-looking man with a French accent and a thin moustache on his upper lip.

"That's because intel didn't have the full picture of the situation here," explained Sullivan, as though it were painfully obvious. He was stood atop the ridge overlooking the facility, looking over some unknown papers in his hands.

"Screw your intel!" shouted the moustachioed soldier. "Next time it had better know for sure!" Sullivan ignored him as he stepped back from the ridge edge.

"So what now, chief?" asked Nick, sat with his back against the ridge.

"Simple, we go back in."

"What?!" cried half of the men present, scrambling to their feet in shock. The camera itself jolted as its wearer got to his own feet, sudden flickers of static crossing the screen.

"Back in there with those freaks?" asked a blonde-haired man with a stocky figure and a noticeable southern accent. "No fucking way man!"

"Then you can just leave Hawkes: go on, get out of here!" snapped Sullivan, turning on the complaining man, a furious look in his eyes. "You know that evac isn't due for at least another hour, and we're miles from any form of civilisation…but you're welcome to start walking!"

Hawkes looked ready for a fight, but then he finally cooled down and sat himself down on the ridge edge, looking crestfallen. "Any other objections?" asked Sullivan, and the dead silence answered his question for him.

"Good, now this facility should be fitted with a self-destruct sequence," explained the squad leader, laying down the map he'd been studying and pointing out some areas on the facility's layout. "We find it, and activate it, and it should clean this mess once and for all."

"What about survivors sir?" asked the voice from behind the camera, possibly the man who was wearing it currently.

"We won't waste time with that. Even if there are any survivors, there are none. Are we clear?"

There was a chorus of muttered agreements, but some of the soldiers gave Sullivan a murderous look that showed their disgust plainly.

"Callous bastards…" seethed Ben.

"If anything about their clandestine…activities got out," observed Will, talking for the first time in a while, "Umbrella would be finished. They can't take any chances, and besides, they can afford to lose some facilities here and there. And they can afford to lose a few dozen staff as well…"

"OK, let's get going!" cried Sullivan on screen, as the U.B.C.S soldiers stood up and got their equipment ready. He then looked toward the camera. "Connors! How's that tape?"

"Nearly ran out sir!" shouted the voice of the camera man.

"That's allright, we should be fine with what we've got," muttered Sullivan in response. "Now get yourself ready and set!" With that, the camera cut out again to another blizzard of static.

"We went back in and we activated the self-destruct system, but we lost another three men, Sullivan among them," explained Nick with a heavy sigh. "Mission accomplished, and I was promoted to Lieutenant and put in charge of the unit. I had full command, after just one mission. But it wouldn't be my last…"

Devlan pulled up at least three other videos, all showing video recordings of other U.B.C.S missions, in varied locations such as the African jungle, tropical islands in the Pacific, and deserts in the Middle East. Each video showed a small number of men battling against zombies and other hideous monsters though, showed people dying, and showed the extent of Umbrella's efforts to play God.

"As you can see," pointed out Devlan, "we clock up a lot of air miles." It was meant to be a joke, but somehow its humour was lost on all of them.

"Why are these videos taken anyways?" asked Dean, after a short pause.

"For Umbrella's purposes, of course," said Joel, from behind them. "They love their damned combat data, they do. They get to see how their creations act in the field."

"And they don't have enough already?" asked Ben, rising from his seat. All eyes were on him already. "This virus leaks, people die, and they can't send someone out fast enough just to check how it works exactly!"

"Ben!" seethed Dean, trying to get his friend to calm down, but Ben was having none of it. He was on his feet now, in full ranting mode.

"No! Those bastards at Umbrella knew…they _knew! _They knew what all of this trying to play God, playing with all these viruses could do, and they did nothing about it, didn't even bother to try and stop! They kept on doing their research, kept looking for new ways to create monsters, new ways to kill people! And why? Because they wanted to line their damned pockets with gold! Do they give a shit about anyone else? No, they don't! They deserve to rot in hell, every single one of them!"

"You think we don't feel the same way?" asked Nick, on his feet as well, giving Ben a hard glare. "We're considered fully expendable! We get sent in to clean up their mess, because no-one will miss us! Us! A bunch of former war criminals! Well no more! We're going to give those bastards something to sweat about, and we need all the help we can get." He clamed down a little, taking a deep breath and looking down at the floor, and then back up again. "So are you willing to help us?"

Ben didn't say anything: he just threw his arms in the air in a dismissive gesture, before he turned and stomped up the stairs, passing by the Scot, MacCormack, who was on his way down. He watched Ben go by, apparently noticing the man's visible rage.

"He gonna be allright?" he asked in his native brogue, joining the main group in the foyer.

"Yeah, I think so," answered Dean, nodding but keeping his gaze on the stairs. "He just needs to cool off for a little while."

_I hope that's all it is, _he thought to himself.

**September 27****th**** 1857 hours, outside Raccoon City**

The battered red pick-up truck pulled up into an empty spot next to an army jeep.

"My God," was all Cameron could utter, upon seeing the sight before them.

They'd managed to pull up on one of the refugee stations set up around the city limits, this one based in the forecourt and surrounding area of a run-down motel, located just off to the side of the main road, 5 miles outside Raccoon City. Huge flood lights set in and around the forecourt illuminated the general area, almost as though it were broad daylight.

But there was no chance of them getting anywhere near the city limits.

Between them and the city proper was utter pandemonium. Army vehicles, such as trucks and jeeps, alongside dozens of regular civilian vehicles, filled up the motel's parking lot and the area on the opposite side of the road, and practically every space in between as well. There were a couple of news vans as well, from big national news stations, and Cameron could see at least one camera crew and a female reporter chasing after a pair of soldiers, trying to get someone's word on the situation, but the soldiers didn't look interested. Further past the scrum of parked vehicles, he could make out crowds of people milling about, some of them fully clothed, others covered in blood and tattered clothing, wandering aimlessly. Cameron guessed that many of them were refugees from the city, while others were like them: concerned relatives and friends who'd made the journey here to try and find information on their loved ones, if they were still alive.

The sound was overwhelming.

That's the impression that came to mind: the overall cacophony of screaming, shouting, crying, wailing, vehicle engines and angry shouting- it was overpowering, drowning out everything else, including normal thought processes.

The sound of a car door slamming bought Cameron back to the real world: Travis had already left the vehicle and was running towards the front of the scrum. Hurriedly, Cameron undid his own seat belt and ran after his friend, leaving the truck unlocked and unattended. They pushed through the crowds of people, some of them giving angry glances, but others just gave blank looks.

They got about 30 yards before Travis nearly collided head-on with a pair of armed soldiers who stood before him, blocking the route through, holding onto his arms. "Sorry sir, you can't come through," barked one of them, his face vacant.

"Screw that!" yelled Travis, squirming free from their firm grasp. "Our friend's are in there!"

"Turn back sir," affirmed the second soldier, giving Travis a threatening glance.

"We're not going anywhere!" shouted Cameron, coming up next to his friend and glaring at the soldiers. "Like he said, our friends are in there!"

The two soldiers looked as though they were on the brink of being forceful, but a third voice, a powerful, commanding one, stopped them in their tracks.

"Let them through! That's an order."

One of them looked over behind him, but then he nodded in acknowledgement and both of them stepped aside, as another man, wearing camouflaged pants and shirt, but no body armour, appeared. He was about Travis' height, with short black hair, brown eyes, a clean-shaven appearance and a firm look on his face. A silver bar attached to his breast identified him as a Lieutenant.

"Lieutenant Gordon Fletcher, Raccoon County Garrison," the newcomer announced, taking note of the two new arrivals. "Trust me gentlemen, you're not the first ones we've had visit in these recent…events."

"So I can gather," noted Cameron, looking around at the chaos.

"Thanks for calling off the dogs Lieutenant," snapped Travis, "but we still need to find our friends."

"Of course," noted the officer. "If you'd be so kind as to follow me." And with that, the Lieutenant took off at a brisk pace, Travis and Cameron following after him. The two soldiers that had tried to bar their access just gave both of them a filthy look and resumed their duties.

"We were ordered to start turning people away hours ago," mentioned Lieutenant Fletcher as they picked their way through milling crowds, parked vehicles and squads of soldiers running this way and that. "But honestly, I don't see the point anymore."

Travis and Cameron said nothing, the sights doing all the talking for them. They passed by a young couple sat weeping together, arms wrapped around one another, the male with his head wrapped in bloody bandages. Further on, they passed by a scene where a newspaper camera crew was pestering another soldier, a sergeant judging by the badge on his shoulder, for his comments on the situation. But he looked rather ticked off.

"No comment," he said bluntly.

"But sergeant, we've heard rumours that-"

"I said no comment!" snapped the sergeant, storming away.

They eventually rounded a corner, to the area off to the side of the motel, and found it converted into a makeshift refugee centre: huge tents set up to provide some semblance of a shelter, while row upon row of medical cots had been set up as makeshift beds, currently occupied by row upon row of refugees from Raccoon City. Cameron guessed there must've been at least 500 of them, and somewhere beyond what he could see, soldiers were working to set up even more tents. Several army medics, their shoulders marked with red crosses within white circles, tended to the wounded, moving from cot to cot.

"Damn," mumbled Travis from somewhere nearby as he observed the scene with Lieutenant Fletcher.

"The main bulk came in shortly after this whole mess began," explained the officer, "but more trickle in every now and then. We've got helicopter evacuation teams working constantly…along with what remains of the Raccoon Fire Department. They're brining out more people, but only in very small numbers."

"Geez…sounds like pandemonium," muttered Cameron.

"You can say that again," observed Fletcher. "The stations to the North and South are flooded from what I hear. Reports are sketchy, but there's an estimate of 2,000 survivors from the city so far."

"But we're only interested in finding two people, Lieutenant," observed Travis, impatiently. "Could they be here?"

"You should check with Corporal Greene over there," answered Fletcher, pointing towards a blonde-haired man standing at the corner of one of the tents, a clipboard in his hands, shouting orders to the army medics running back and forth. "He's taken a record of all the refugees who've turned up."

"Thanks," said Travis, already moving towards the Corporal.

"Lieutenant?" asked Cameron.

"Yes sir?" asked Fletcher, turning back.

"You said there were other refugee centres? Could you possibly check with them if we can't find our friends here, to see if they've turned up at another refugee centre?" It seemed like a smart suggestion to make.

Fletcher was silent for a moment, but then he understood what they were asking about and nodded slowly. "I'll see what I can do, but I can't promise anything. What are their names?"

Cameron just stared blankly for a moment, before he suddenly realised what the Lieutenant was asking of them, and he shook his head slightly. He was still weary from lack of sleep, it seemed. "Oh, um, Dean Travers and Ben Campbell. And they're both members of the Raccoon Police Department, if that helps."

"OK," nodded Fletcher. "And what are your names, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Uh, Travis Pattinson and Cameron Arnold," replied Cameron, quickly.

"OK then fellas, I'll be as quick as I can." And with that, Fletcher turned and walked away from them.

Travis was now approaching Corporal Greene, a short, unhealthy-looking man who looked dead on his feet with fatigue, but he still greeted the two men in a brisk manner. "Can I help you?" he asked, sounding a little bored or tired maybe. Probably tired, judging by all the noise going on. Travis would never be able to sleep in a place this noisy either.

"We're looking for our friends," announced Travis, as Cameron hurried up beside him.

"Names?" asked the corporal, flicking through the sheets of paper attached to the clipboard he held.

"Dean Travers and Ben Campbell," answered Cameron.

The corporal started to flick through the myriad of sheets attached to his clipboard. Many sheets had dozens of names written across them in rushed handwriting, while several more had names listed in a more orderly fashion, mainly arrayed into alphabetical order. It looked as though the army were having trouble in keeping track of the people coming in, regardless of all the technology they had brought along.

As they waited for some good news, Travis glanced past Greene's shoulder, looking down at the rows of refugees perched on the medical cots beyond. Some of them were lying down, wrapped in grey blankets, trying to get some semblance of sleep; others were wandering aimlessly, seemingly talking to themselves; and others just sat there, staring straight ahead of them. Travis caught the sight of one middle-aged man, wearing clothes that looked too small for him, just staring right at him. His green eyes seemed to hold a lifetime of suffering and loss behind them.

"Sorry gentlemen, there's no-one by those names here."

Travis felt something in his gut stir. "Check again," he said, flatly. "They're both members of the R.P.D, if that's any help." The corporal gave him a glare and checked the list over again.

"Sorry sir, no-one of those names here."

"Check-"

"Travis," urged Cameron, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. The football player looked back at Cameron, his face forlorn, and sighed in defeat. There was little point in asking him again and again, hoping for the names they were hoping for to magically come up: there was no such thing as a miracle.

"Thank you," nodded Cameron, leading Travis away from the army man, who just semi-scowled and went back to talking to an army medic. Travis looked rather pale, Cameron noticed, so expectant was he of hearing some good news. To be fair, Cameron was feeling the same way. It felt as though there was a load of lead sitting in his stomach.

"They're not here…" muttered Travis, staring ahead as they walked away from the refugee tents.

"Look, we can't give up hope, not when we've come this far," reasoned Cameron. "Lieutenant Fletcher's gone to consult the other refugee camps, I'm sure they've managed to get to one of those." Travis looked at his friend and nodded, but he didn't seem fully convinced.

The sound of helicopter rotors filled the air, and they both looked up in time to see a quartet of helicopters flying overhead, stirring up dust and threatening to knock people over. At least one parked car was fully overturned by the artificial wind, causing people to scatter out of the way as it landed on its roof, putting out all of the windows and setting off its alarm, further adding to the sheer noise of the refugee centre.

Cameron recognised two of the flying machines as army vehicles, huge UH-60A Black Hawks, complete with chain-guns mounted on the side openings, operated by army soldiers, whereas the other two choppers were much smaller models, of civilian design. A man dressed in the dark black and yellow of a fireman was hanging out of the side of one of them, a megaphone in his hand.

"Probably going to search for survivors," noted Travis, watching the choppers disappear into the distance, towards the city. "We should be on one of them."

"You crazy?!" hissed Cameron, staring him in the eye. "You'd honestly think they'd let civilians onto one of those? Especially when they need all the space on them for extracting any civilians they find? We should just sit tight and not do anything rash: last thing we need is to get into trouble."

Travis just huffed and turned away. The helicopters were practically gone now, just tiny black specks on the horizon. Beyond them, the orange glows of several fires illuminated the outline of Raccoon City itself.

"I'd hate to think what's going on in there," observed Travis, staring.

"Doubt we'll find out without the threat of being shot," mused Cameron, staring at the barricaded road about 30 feet to their left.

It was hardly the most fortified barricade in the world: just a waist-high picket fence, with barbed wire wrapped around the outer fencing units, with the centre units left untouched so they could be removed to allow vehicles to pass through if needed. The barricade was also manned by a trio of army personnel, all of them wearing gas masks and armed with M4A1 assault rifles. No-one would be getting past them unless they fancied getting shredded with gunfire.

But it didn't deter some people though: a small crowd was gathering around the barricade, shouting and jostling. A balding man, perhaps in his mid 50's, approached the barricade and looked one of the soldiers standing guard in the face.

"Let us through son!" he demanded angrily. "My family's still trapped in there! And not just mine either-" he continued, indicating towards the crowd gathering behind him.

"Sorry sir, we can't allow anyone to break the quarantine," replied the soldier, staring down at the man, who was practically standing on his tip toes to look the man in the face. The markings on his shoulder identified him as a corporal.

"Quarantine?" scoffed the elderly man. "From what? And don't say toxic waste, cause I was there two days ago when it all started, and all the screaming that was going on told me that it sure as hell wasn't a toxic waste spillage!" Shouts of agreement went up behind him, the soldiers on guard looking a little uncomfortable.

"I don't like where this could go," muttered Cameron, watching with interest. Travis just nodded in agreement.

"Look, just step back sir, now!" ordered the corporal, pointing beyond the crowd, but they showed no signs of backing down. Instead they jostled some more and started shouting more loudly.

"Hell no!" cried the elderly man, apparently acting as ringleader for this motley group. "We've waited long enough only to be told nothing! And I'm sick of waiting!" The crowd cheered in agreement.

The old man tried pushing past the corporal, who shoved back in response.

"Stand back now!" he ordered firmly. "I won't ask you again!" The other soldiers were getting edgy now, hands tensing around their weapons.

"What are you gonna do?!" asked the ringleader, getting exasperated. "Shoot us all? I seriously doubt the Raccoon City military would be as callous as to gun down a load of well-meaning citizens!" He moved forward again, and grabbed the corporal by the arm in a forceful manner.

Unexpectedly, the corporal pulled himself free from the old man's grip and lashed out, striking him in the side of the head with his rifle stock and knocking him to the ground, drawing blood into the bargain as well.

The crowd cried out in anger and disgust, and then they were surging forward, wanting a taste of blood and shouting out insults. Cameron tensed up as he watched the crowd move, waiting for the worst.

A stream of gunfire rang out, drowning out everything else in the vicinity. Every other sound ceased immediately.

For one terrifying moment, Cameron had thought that the soldiers guarding the barricade had gunned down a crowd of innocent civilians who just wanted to get back into the city to find their loved ones, a massacre that could have been easily averted.

Luckily for everyone involved, that wasn't the case. The corporal, panicking, had simply taken a step backwards and had fired his M4 rifle into the air, dissuading the crowd from advancing any further. It had worked, for now: they had backed away a short distance, staring at the soldiers, as a young blonde man helped the elderly ringleader to his feet, blood streaming from the cut on his face. He'd been struck fairly hard for blood to be drawn.

"That's enough!" shouted the corporal, breathing hard through his gas mask. "Anything else starts behaving like a bunch of savages and I won't miss with my next shot!"

"Corporal!" shouted a powerful voice from somewhere to the rear of the crowd, getting everyone's attention. "What the hell are you playing at?"

The crowd parted as Lieutenant Fletcher pushed through to the barricade, his face red with anger. "You trying to panic people even more?" he asked rhetorically, nearly getting right in the corporal's face.

"Sir, these people wanted to get through, but orders were to-"

"That's enough!" snapped Fletcher, turning to face the bloodied ringleader of the group, keeping his anger in check. "Sir, what were you thinking?"

"My family is still stuck in there!" seethed the elderly man, standing unaided now. "I can't just stand by and do nothing! I could be in there-"

"And you think that warrants breaking the quarantine?" asked Fletcher, interrupting him. "Look at it this way, what if your family were safe, but when they got out you weren't there to greet them, since you'd broken into the city and gotten yourself killed in the process? What then?"

The man just looked at the Lieutenant, and then down at the ground, forlorn. "I-"

"Trust me, you're all better off staying here and waiting to see if your family turns up," reasoned Fletcher. "The same goes for all of you," he continued, looking at the crowd arrayed behind their ringleader. Some of them looked a bit guilty as they avoided eye contact with the army officer. He looked back at the old man before him. "What's your name?"

"A-Albert," stuttered the old man. "Albert Jefferson."

"Well Mr. Jefferson," reasoned Fletcher, "I advise you to see a medic and get that cut patched up, and then I advise that you all go and sit tight and wait for word from your families…be patient and I'm sure that it'll be good news. And spread the word while you're at it."

Mr. Jefferson just nodded sagely, before he turned to the group and gave the order for them all to disperse. They did so, making their slow way back to the refugee tents they'd been stationed at previously, while the old man wandered off to find an army medic. Once they'd all gone, Fletcher turned back to face the corporal he'd been berating a minute before.

"Corporal, the last thing we need on our hands right now is a massacre, so what the hell were you thinking?"

"Sir, it was a high-pressure situation-"

"I'm not interested in your excuses!" Snapped Fletcher, causing the other two soldiers on barricade duty to flinch. "Due to the circumstances, I'll let it slide for now," he said, his voice low and deadly, "but if something like this happens again, I'll come down on you with the fury of a righteous God after this is all over, do you here me?"

"I do sir," replied the corporal, saluting.

And with that, Fletcher turned and stalked away, looking as though he were spoiling for a fight.

"Wow," muttered Travis, watching the whole scene from the sidelines. "Don't want to piss him off."

"I can guess this is a pretty stressful situation for everyone involved," noted Cameron, master of the understatement. "We shouldn't try and add to that."

"Like…trying to sneak through into the city?" suggested Travis.

Cameron gave him a sideways glance. "I hope you weren't going to suggest sneaking into the city?"

"Oh, of course not," smirked Travis, cheekily. "You know me."

"Yeah, and I have to put up with that fact every living day," quipped Cameron back, watching as people from the group that was being threatening beforehand pushed past, blank expressions upon their faces.

The two friends turned back to face in the direction of the road leading into the city. They could just make out the outline of buildings in the distance, back-lighted by the glow of many fires. If Raccoon City had been subjected to a toxic waste spillage, why did it look as though half the city was burning?

"But I have to admit," noted Cameron, "something seems fishy here."

"You think?" asked Travis in a sarcastic manner. "What if we hear nothing from the other refugee camps? Then what would we do?"

"I don't know yet," replied Cameron. Travis always insisted that he was the smarter of the two men, and he'd always defer to him when it came to situations such as this. It wasn't that he was stupid: he just respected Cameron's judgement more. "We should just wait and hear if there's any good news, then we'll figure things out from there."

Travis just nodded in agreement, before the two of them took one last look at the burning lights in the far distance, and walked off towards their parked vehicle.

Ben sat upstairs in one of the abandoned offices, perched on the edge of a desk, one of his fists rested on his cheek. He was shaking his head and muttering to himself. After witnessing most of Umbrella's past crimes, courtesy of all the files on that computer, he was beside himself with rage. Umbrella knew fine well what they had created, and yet they made no effort to stop before things could get out of hand.

There had been other outbreaks, as Nick and the others had explained, so something on the scale of Raccoon City would have been inevitable, if Umbrella had kept up their little game of playing with viruses of dubious origin or creation. And they had done, and now they had an almighty mess on their hands. If the company had gotten away with things so far, then something on this scale would be much harder to try and brush under the carpet.

"Ben?"

He glanced up towards the door to see Dean standing there, flanked by Nick and Will, the U.B.C.S medic.

"You allright?" asked his old friend.

"Yeah," replied Ben almost instantly. "Just…those bastards can't get away with this."

"And they won't," said Dean, moving around to crouch in front of his friend. "Don't worry. We'll get out of here, all of us. And we'll make sure the whole world knows what Umbrella did here."

"I know we will," agreed Ben. "I just…couldn't believe they'd gone this long without someone knowing."

"Oh, plenty of people knew," added Will, standing in the doorway still, "it's just anyone who ever dared thinking of trying to tell the world ended up dead, or as one of their…'test subjects'." He emphasised that last statement by making quotation marks in the air with his hands.

"That's enough Will," said Nick, entering the room fully. "Look, we need to talk about something serious."

"What?" asked Ben, confused.

Nick looked a bit grim as he started to explain. "We need to make sure that neither of you are infected with the T-Virus."

There was a very deadly silence that descended in the room as Ben just stared at Nick, letting the Lieutenant's words sink in. Then finally, he just started to smile, and then laugh, in a nervous manner.

"Oh come on, this isn't the time to start joking!"

Dean just gave him a firm stare, and Ben's face started to drop. "But neither of us haven't been bitten or scratched…have you Dean?" He looked at his friend, who just avoided making eye-contact for some reason.

"That's all well and good," said Will, "but in every case of their being a T-Virus outbreak, there's been a 100% fatality count. It's correct that the virus transfers by direct contact, but it can spread itself through the water supply, through practically any living thing: we still don't know the full number of ways it can spread."

"But I'm not infected," affirmed Ben, looking a little worried now. "I don't feel any different!" He then turned to Dean, to try and find some reassurance. "Dean!"

Dean still didn't say anything; he just avoided his partner's gaze.

"There's one way to know for sure," said Will, getting a fiery stare from Ben, clearly not in the mood. "I take a sample of your blood, and of Dean's blood, and compare it to a sample taken from a T-Virus host-"

"A host?" asked Ben.

"A zombie, basically," answered Nick.

"-and compare the blood samples to see if either of you have Virus cells in your system."

"And what if we do?" asked Ben, fearfully. "Do you have a cure cooked up somewhere?"

Will gave him a hard stare. "No, we don't."

Both Dean and Ben turned to stare at Will, faces set in shock.

"What the hell?!" asked Ben, standing up. "If this is some sick joke-"

"No, he's not joking," interrupted Nick, trying to defuse the situation. "There's no recorded cure for the T-Virus, and if there is, Umbrella must be keeping it very well hidden. All we know is that there's an antibody which can reduce your chances of being infected, which all U.B.C.S members are issued with prior to a mission, and then there's anti-viral pills that slow the rate of infection."

"You mean these?" asked Dean, removing the small bag of white pills from one of his pockets. He'd only just realised he still had them with him. Ben just looked at him, dumbfounded.

"When the hell were you planning on telling me about that Dean?" he asked, sounding pissed off.

Dean cursed. He'd completely forgotten about telling his friend about the fact he'd been taking pills for fear that he could be in danger of catching the virus. "Honestly? I was so glad to see that you weren't dead that it completely skipped my mind."

Ben's face softened. It made sense of his friend to say that, since he'd probably have done the same. He nodded as he understood his friend's reasoning.

"Come on guys," said Will, producing a pair of empty syringes. "The sooner we do this, the sooner we can prepare for the worst if it is going to come to that."

There was a long silence. Eventually, Ben sighed, walked over to where Will was stood, and rolled up his shirt sleeve.

"Here," he said, "just get it over with please."

5 minutes later, Ben and Dean watched Will as he applied small droplets of their blood onto microscope slides, soaking the crimson liquid between in a clear solution, and then squeezing it all between two thin sheets of glass so they were ready for the microscope. The two of them rubbed the recent needle marks on their arms.

Nick had disappeared outside, to take a blood sample from one of the zombie corpses lying outside. Dean had asked if there taking a sample from a dead zombie would compromise the comparison, but as Nick rightly pointed out, zombies weren't really alive either way, walking about or dead with a bullet to a brain.

"Nervous?" asked Ben to Dean, who was looking out the window, looking at the orange glow of distant fires.

"Just a little," replied Dean sarcastically. "But trust me Ben, whatever happens, I assure you the only thing I'm hungry for is a big juicy steak right about now."

Ben smiled. "Oh yeah, I feel the same way buddy, so don't worry." The two of them shared a laugh, just as Nick bounded back into the makeshift surgery, holding a syringe filled with thick, congealed blood.

"Got it," he said, passing it to Will, breathing heavily. "Got myself messed up getting it though," he then added, indicating that fact fresh blood was stained on the front of his fatigue pants. Will ignored him as he added the zombie blood to a slide, his hands protected by latex gloves. After another minute or so, he lined the slides up under the microscope and took a look at each one. There was utter silence, aside from Will's breathing as he double and triple-checked each slide in turn.

"Here, come take a look," he finally said, stepping back from the microscope and indicating towards it. Tentatively, Dean approached the microscope and looked down it with his right eye. Through the eye-piece, he saw various shapes floating around in the solution: large red blood cells, and more commonly, bulbous, sickly-coloured organisms, multiple tendrils extending off from each one. They moved as though they were…alive.

"What the?"

"Those ugly things you see swimming about are T-Virus cells," explained Will. "That's a blood sample from a zombie. As you can see, it's practically saturated with T-Virus, so get some of that on your tongue or in an open wound and you're as good as dead."

Dean looked a little worried, as Will peeled off his latex gloves. "Don't worry, I'm too careful to be caught out in that way." He stepped around the table and pointed toward the other slides on the table. "Now take a look at your blood sample.

Hesitantly, Dean twisted one of the dials on the side of the microscope and looked down at the next sample. Red blood cells, alongside white blood cells and other miniscule organisms, swam around below the end of the scope, a stark contrast to the zombie's blood sample from before. He looked a little closer, and saw smaller, multi-tendril cells skirting between the much larger blood cells. Some of them were in the process of dividing as he stared at them with intent.

"Those are-"

"Yeah, T-Virus cells."

Will had answered for him, an answer that he didn't want to hear. He moved away from the microscope and approached a nearby chair, falling into it with practically no effort whatsoever. He stared ahead of him, breathing heavily. He'd been careful not to get close to any of the monstrous creatures he'd so far ran across in the city, but it looked as though that was all for naught: the virus was in his blood, and that meant it was only a matter of time before-

"What about my blood?" asked Ben, walking across the room and taking his own spot at the microscope.

_Oh yeah Ben, worry about yourself and never mind the fact that I could be turning into a zombie in the near future, _thought Dean to himself callously. _You selfish-_

"Oh no," muttered Ben, taking a step back from the scope. Looked as though he had the same bad news as well. He walked over to where Dean was sat, shaking his head and muttering to himself. "But how the hell could this happen? I haven't been bitten or scratched!"

"Any kind of direct contact with a T-Virus created monster can lead to virus transfer," explained Nick, still standing over by the doorway. "Have either of you gotten too close for comfort to a creature?"

The two cops started to search their minds, trying to remember when they last got too close to one of Umbrella's monstrous creations. Dean remembered that some hours ago, he'd nearly got taken surprise by a zombie, but had managed to hold it away from him as he snapped its neck with his bare hands. He remembered the smaller details, the image of the decaying monster creeping back into his subconscious: the peaked cap, the tattered beard-

The spittle. When the creature snapped its jaws at him, it launched a lad of spittle off of its teeth and tongue. Chances were, a drop of it could have landed on his own tongue, or it could have gone up his nose, but it would have been such a tiny droplet. And that tiny droplet alone had lead to him having T-Virus cells in his blood stream…

"I think I know what happened to me," announced Ben, pacing about. "It must have been from that one-eyed freak from before…it had me by the neck, remember?"

"But it only had you round the neck," explained Dean. "How could that have transferred the virus?"

"Wait, you mean _that _one-eyed freak?" asked Nick, looking a little surprised.

"Yeah, the very same one," nodded Dean.

"Woah, hold on, you faced that thing before?" asked Ben, facing his friend.

"Well, yes, but I that was alongside all these guys," Dean explained, looking a bit guilty. "Even then it wasn't so easy to put him down."

"Look, we're getting off subject," interrupted Nick, stepping into the middle of the room. "It doesn't matter how you got virus transfer, all that matters is getting beyond it."

"So then what?" asked Ben, staring. "Are you going to put us down like rabid dogs before anything bad happens?"

"No!" snapped Will, making everyone jump in surprise. "We're not that callous. Both of you only have a mild infection, so it would be days before you start showing any obvious T-Virus symptoms."

"Yeah, that's real comfortable to hear," growled Ben in a low voice.

Will sighed before he continued. "Look," he said, reaching for a small silver case containing a number of syringes filled with light green liquid. "If you take one of these, it should hold off the virus for longer."

"And what is that exactly?" asked Dean, cautiously eyeing the syringes.

"T-Virus antibodies, like we're all assigned before a mission," explained Nick, holding one of them up to the light. "But these ones we found on Lee's body, and these are much higher quality than the ones we're usually given. Will checked them over beforehand."

"I'd guess these 'supervisors' would be given better quality antibodies?" suggested Ben. Nick just nodded in response.

"It's not an outright cure for the T-Virus, but it will increase your resistance to it," explained Will, laying out two of the syringes on the table. "Your immune system can battle the virus cells and try to stop them from multiplying, but at some point it's going to mutate and find a way around that. But if you've both got strong immune systems, then that would take days for that to happen."

"So…what about an outright cure?" asked Ben, still not fully satisfied.

"Look, just take this for now," replied Will, sliding the syringes across the table towards them. "We can worry about that fact later."

The two men looked down at the green syringes before them for several moments, before Dean reached out and took a hold of the syringe in his right hand, looking down at it for a bit longer, taking some deep breaths. Eventually, he rolled up the sleeve of his jacket, looked for a visible vein, and pushed the needle into his skin. He grimaced as he pushed the plunger, and a freezing liquid entered his body. The chilling feeling coursed through his body, and then after a couple of seconds, it was gone again.

"Cold…" he whispered, noting how Ben was looking at him.

"The antibodies has to chill your bloodstream for it to take effect," explained Will. "It does no damage to your body otherwise."

Without hesitation, Ben grabbed for the other syringe, rolled up his sleeve, and stabbed it into his arm, injecting himself in the same manner as Dean had just moments beforehand.

"Good," said Will, as he passed a small bag of white pills to Ben. "Take one of those every few hours as well, just to make sure."

"Are these anti-viral pills?" asked Ben.

"Yeah," nodded Dean. "Same as these," he continued, showing his friend the bag of white pills he'd been carrying for the last day or so.

"Good," sighed Ben, tucking the bag of pills into one of his pockets.

"OK then, observed Nick, "if we're all done here, I think both of you should get some rest."

"But I don't feel like sleeping," muttered Ben, hardly in the mood after learning he was infected with a deadly biological weapon.

"But how long's it been since you last had some rest?" asked Nick, reasonably. "You should at least try and get a nap in the room next door. We'll keep the place secure, so don't worry about that."

Dean rubbed his eyes. "He's got a point," he observed, turning to his friend. "You can't go forever without any rest…you'll collapse on the spot sooner or later."

Ben sighed in defeat, before he nodded a little. "Yeah, ok then. We'll do that."

"That's good to hear," replied Nick. "Once it gets to morning, we'll discuss our next move."

"Sounds good to me," muttered Ben, already heading for the door. Dean followed after him, after giving Nick and Will a grateful look.

"Hold on, here he comes."

Travis and Cameron both stood up as Lieutenant Fletcher approached them, looking as stern as when they had first met him. He came to a halt before them, and paused a little for dramatic effect, before he started to speak.

"I've checked with the other refugee centres…"

"And?" asked Cameron, impatiently.

"There's been no-one of those names turned up, either among the living or the dead."

A long pause.

"But you did double check, right?" asked Travis, pleadingly.

"Of course," replied the Lieutenant. "And triple checked. But still nothing."

The two friends sighed. They feared this would happen. About half an hour beforehand, the choppers had returned, carrying a few survivors with them, but none of them were the people they had been hoping to find. And now they'd been given this news…it felt as though it were pointless to come here in the first place.

"Well, thank you for trying anyway," replied Cameron, looking dejected.

"If I hear anything else, I will let you know, of course," added Fletcher, his voice taking on a more caring tone.

"Thank you," nodded Travis, as the Lieutenant turned and stalked away to do something else. Despite his stern exterior, he guessed that the man still had something of a caring side to him.

"Now what?" asked Travis, looking around sullenly. Cameron just shrugged. Even he didn't have an answer for this mess they had found themselves in. Their friends could be as good as dead for all he knew, but he still felt an obligation to stick around and wait for them to magically appear again, alive and in one piece.

But for the moment, he pulled out his cell phone and entered in a number.

"What are you doing?" asked Travis.

"Calling Lisa to give her the bad news of course," replied Cameron with a straight face. "Better she knows now than calling us later and finding out then."

**A/N: …and we're finally done for this chapter. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, since this one took me an age to write as well, due to all kinds of personal stuff going on in my life, and of course the run up to Christmas. Have you all done your Christmas shopping? **

**But anyways, this will likely be my last update of this story until after Christmas, and besides, I have ideas for other Fanfic-related ideas as well that I'd like to work on, most likely something Call of Duty related, but we shall see sometime in the future. **

**But anyways, R+R as usually please, and I wish you all a good Christmas and a Happy New Year. Take care!**


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Happy 2009, everyone! And like last time, 2008 seemed to go by at a stupidly fast rate. **

**But anyways, here's a new update for you all to enjoy. R+R as usual, please. **

Chapter 18: Breakout

**September 28****th****, 0712 hours**

Dean sat bolt upright with a start, gasping for breath as he did so.

He looked around him quickly and was relieved to see that he was still in one of the rooms of the law offices they had been holed up in for several hours now. He sighed in relief and put a hand to his forehead, which was dripping with several beads of cold sweat, thanks to his being subjected to a bad dream.

He hadn't been able to get to sleep at first, what with sleeping on the floor, but he'd eventually nodded off into a deep slumber, which was just what he needed. But then he'd started to dream, and it wasn't a very pleasant experience, to say the least. He'd remembered he was fleeing down several alleyways and open streets, away from zombies that drove at him from every angle, melting out of the shadows and even the walls themselves. He didn't have a weapon on him, so he was forced to run, his legs burning and screaming for a break, as fast he could away from them.

The most disturbing part was the fact that most of the zombies were of people that he recognised: Marvin Branagh, Neil Carlsen, Elliot Edwards: practically everyone he knew from the R.P.D, along with the other people he had come to know while he had been living in Raccoon City. Mr. Fox, his landlord, and Monica, the girl who worked in his local convenience store were along them as well, people he didn't know intimately, but people he had met enough times to care about somewhat. He wondered if those people were still alive, holed up somewhere, but he seriously doubted it, considering the state things were in.

But what about his own life? He'd been carrying the news that he was infected with the T-Virus since yesterday, and he still felt incredibly uneasy, no matter how much the others reassured him. It's just a mild infection, it would take days for any obvious symptoms to start showing…but he still didn't feel too comfortable right now. He wanted to scratch as his skin, tear it open and rip out the virus cells flowing through his bloodstream, but that would never work, unless he fancied flaying himself alive…or getting a full blood transfusion. And there was no chance of that happening in this place now. Raccoon City: the city of the dead.

He sighed again and rubbed his weary, stubble-marked face. He'd really need a shave when he got out of here…if that was ever going to happen. With some effort, he forced himself to stand up, stretching his arms up as he did so. He looked out one of the windows near to him, watching the sun rising on the horizon. Its warm glow washed over the streets below, exposing the full extent of Raccoon's destruction. Windows were smashed in, vehicles had piled up into mountains of twisted metal, blood was splashed onto nearly every surface imaginable, and the bodies of those who had died were still walking around, searching for their next meal. It broke Dean's heart to see his home in this state, but he knew it wasn't going to get any better either, so he had to endure it to the end.

Dean stepped away from the window and out into the hallway, where it was strangely quiet. It was silent throughout the whole building, although he could hear Nick having a muted conversation with someone downstairs. Dean walked along the corridor some more, and came to a halt outside the door into the U.B.C.S's makeshift armoury. The smell of something strong hung in the air, something that seemed a little familiar to him.

He peered inside the room, and at the desk, surrounded by plastic pots of black powder marked with different coloured labels, was sat the red-haired man he had been introduced to the other day, James MacCormack, or Mac, as he preferred to be called. To his left he had several empty boxes, to his right he had a leather case filled with a variety of empty shell casings ranging from 9mm handgun casings up to 12 gauge shotgun cartridges, and in front of him was a strange object that looked like some kind of hand-operated press. Using a small scooping spoon, he was filling the empty shell casings with the black powder, then putting them into the press and pulling the lever down, and finally filling the boxes up with the completed products.

He realised it was a reloading tool: a device used to hand-produce your own ammunition. With it, you could fill empty shell casings with gunpowder, put it into the device, and press it all done, adding the lead point of the bullet as well. He had seen Jill Valentine of the S.T.A.R.S team use one of them a few times back at the station, seen her make handgun ammo, shotgun shells, and even special enhanced handgun bullets loaded with special explosive powder known as 'Black Taurus' rounds, which were much more powerful than the regular 9mm, but were illegal for obvious reasons.

Realising he was being watched, the red-headed man looked up suddenly from his work and his face brightened upon seeing Dean standing there. "Oh, good to see you again. Did you manage to sleep last night?"

Dean sighed in response. "A little," he then managed, "but I'm not used to sleeping on the floor."

Mac just laughed out loud for a brief second, a booming laugh that filled up the entire room. "Ah well, there's still plenty of time in your life to get used to that!"

"If I even get out of this damned place."

"Oh come on, don't be so gloomy," replied Mac, stopping what he was doing for a moment and looking up at Dean. "We'll get you out of this city, trust me. You got the cream of the U.B.C.S Delta Platoon watching your back."

"But didn't you hear before? I'm infected," replied Dean. "There's no way I'd be able to get let out of the city if I'm considered a risk to anyone else."

"Then we'll find a cure for you, you and your friend both."

"If there even is a cure."

Mac frowned. This guy's pessimism was starting to drag even him down. Yes, it was a very desperate situation outside in the city, but he'd tried to keep a good face on things, to convince himself to keep going and not give up at the halfway margin. And now Dean's gloomy outlook was starting to chip away at that hopeful image he'd built up. "Hey come on mate, don't be like that," he reassured, "no way the boss will let anything happen to either of you."

Dean just nodded, looking a little unconvinced, before looking around again.

"Your mate left with Rob earlier on, if you're wondering where he is," announced Mac, breaking the silence again. "They're doing a sweep for supplies and to check the roads out…for a way out of here."

Dean nodded again, before sitting himself down and looking around at the various boxes of ammunition and the spare weapons lying about. "Where the hell did you find all of this stuff?" he asked in wonder. "You got enough to supply a whole platoon I reckon."

Mac laughed out loud. "I seriously doubt that, but I'll take it as a compliment. Most of this we found in abandoned gun shops, or on the bodies of dead comrades: I only started making our own ammo just now, since Joel found some spare pots of gunpowder on his last trip out."

"Well still it's a good thing you know how to make your on ammo," commented Dean. "You'll probably need all you can get."

"Yep," nodded Mac, still cranking out 9mm ammunition from the reloading tool. "I learned to do this back with my old regiment, back in the day…"

"And where was that?"

"The 9th S.A.S Regiment," answered Mac, looking up from his work, his eyes twinkling with old memories. "The world's most prestigious special forces regiment, back in rainy old England it was. 5 years I was with them, in all."

"The S.A.S?" asked Dean, with a fair amount of awe. "That's pretty impressive."

"Ah well, it's not so impressive when you're fighting and killing just to try and fulfil someone else's needs," replied Mac, sighing deeply. "I left in the end, got sick of being used. Me and Will both."

"You were in the same regiment?" asked Dean, interested.

"Yep," nodded Mac. "He'd been in the regiment for two years before we left. One of our best trained field medics lost, just like that. He got sick of being used as well, but here we are again, being used again, for some hideous purpose, something far worse than what we were putting up with before…"

"So why'd you agree to work for Umbrella?" asked Dean, leaning in.

"Why do you think?" asked Mac, putting his tools down for a few seconds. "We hated being soldiers, but that's all we were good at. Ironic, isn't it? After a few years of sitting around and not achieving anything meaningful, these Umbrella suits offered me a place in the U.B.C.S. Thought it was good fortune that I ended up running into Will as well. What a small world we live in, eh?"

"Something like that," replied Dean with a slight smile, as Mac went back to his ammo making. He mixed two different pots of gunpowder together and started to spoon it into empty shotgun cartridges, coloured with a deep blue rather than the usual red used to colour 12 gauge cartridges. "What are those?" asked Dean curiously.

"These," said Mac, holding up one of the blue cartridges to the light, "are my own concoction: shotgun buckshot mixed in with explosive gunpowder, which makes them about three times more powerful than regular buckshot. And no, it's not legal before you ask."

"Didn't think so," smirked Dean, staring at the blue cartridge thoughtfully.

"I was the demolitions man back in my old unit, so I picked up a few tricks," explained the red-headed man, before pushing a small yellow box filled with blue cartridges across the table to Dean. "Here, have some on the house."

"Thanks," said Dean, putting the box into his sidepack.

"Be careful using them though, they've got one hell of a kick," warned the Scot. "And use them wisely as well! They're not easy to make."

A couple of blocks away, Ben Campbell followed Rob Devlan back towards the safety of the law offices. Devlan was walking a few yards in front, his modified rifle scanning for any potential targets. Ben sort of ambled along behind, his Remington shotgun in his hands and an empty duffel bag slung over his shoulder. They hadn't found anything of value on their little trip, so the bag was empty. Despite the fact that he had witnessed times when the streets were absolutely swarming with the undead, the streets of southern Raccoon City were practically empty. He could still hear the tortured moans of the zombies lurking further out of sight, but he paid them little heed. He had gotten used to the sounds by now.

He looked down at his shotgun and sighed. He had stocked up on fresh ammunition before they had left, and he now had about 40 shells on him for the large pump-action weapon, including the 8 currently loaded into the magazine tube. He had taken a few spare handgun magazines as well, and he had at least 10 spare magazines for his sidearm, enough to keep him going for a while…he hoped. Stocking up on fresh ammunition made him feel a bit safer and more capable as well.

He looked up again at the back of his companion. He felt uneasy around the tall, lanky sniper he had to admit: though he didn't know why. The man just seemed…dangerous. As though you didn't dare say anything to him, lest he turned on you and broke your neck without a second thought. His face was currently set in concentration as he scanned over every alleyway they passed by, moving with a precision only acquired through years of military experience.

"So…where were you before?" asked Ben, trying to break the ice a little. The sniper didn't even look away towards him as he replied.

"What?"

"Where were you before you joined the U.B.C.S?" continued Ben.

"You wouldn't be interested in my story," was the grim reply.

"Try me."

Devlan suddenly stopped what he was doing and turned on Ben, his face turning up into a slight scowl as he made eye contact. Ben stopped in his tracks and recoiled slightly, not expecting his companion to react in such a way. Devlan narrowed his eyes and cocked his head slightly, making him look even more dangerous.

"Why are you so interested, anyways?" he asked, venom creeping into his voice. "No-one wants to hear about the past, you should worry about the hear and now instead of bugging me. What if we get ambushed by zombies?"

"I doubt zombies are smart enough to spring an ambush, let alone tie their own shoelaces," retorted Ben. "I just asked you a simple question, that's all."

"But there's nothing good for me back then," replied the sniper, turning away. "Nothing in my past but pain and suffering…nothing you want to hear." His shoulders sagged, as though he were feeling pain even thinking about his past.

There was silence for a few seconds.

"But you've barely said a word since we went out on this little trip," reasoned Ben.

Devlan whirled around, his face red with sudden anger. "Are you deaf or are you just stupid?! I said I didn't want to talk about, so I don't want to talk about it! Why the hell do you care so much anyways? I'm expendable, like the rest of the U.B.C.S! We're nothing! We're just scum, like the kind you scrap off the soles of your shoe without a second though. No-one cares about us anymore, why do you think they left us here to die?!"

Ben recoiled suddenly at Devlan's outburst, to avoid the spittle that was flying off of the Umbrella soldier's teeth as he was shouting.

"So just forget it!" continued Devlan, gasping for air before he continued. "There's a good chance we'll all be dead before the end of the day anyways!" And with that, he turned on his heel and stormed away up the street. Ben watched him go, stunned into silence. He started to wish that he'd never said anything now. Gingerly, he started to follow after the lanky man at a safe distance.

Since his back was turned, Ben couldn't see the hot tears that were rolling down Robert Devlan's cheeks. He had tried to avoid bringing his past back up for years, but now it had all come rushing back to him within the space of one short minute, and he felt as though he were going to explode. He didn't mean to shout at Ben like that, he honestly didn't. So he would apologise to him later.

If he ever got the chance.

Cameron opened his eyes and blinked a few times to clear his vision. He tried to stretch his arms, but they banged into the roof of Travis' pick-up truck, where they had both slept for the night, curled up in the front seats as best they could. Even if there was a motel right next to them, all the rooms were full of wounded and tired refugees, and those people were always more needy than them. Looking out the side window, he could see it was morning now. The crowd noise from when they had first arrived here had largely died down, but there was still a good number of army personnel moving to and fro, shouting at one another or at the people who still milled around, searching for any news of their loved ones.

"Damn," groaned Cameron, sitting up in his seat and rubbing his eyes, before retrieving his glasses from the glove compartment and putting them on. He looked at Travis next to him, who was still curled up asleep, his mouth half-open and snoring loudly. It was a wonder that he didn't keep Cameron awake with his vocal performance.

Cameron gave his friend a prod with his finger. He stirred a little, making a snorting sound and rolling over so he was facing away from Cameron.

Cameron rolled his eyes and tried again. "Travis, wake up!" he implored, prodding his friend in the ribs. Travis mumbled something.

"Leave me alone Michelle…" he whispered, referring to his girlfriend, still back in Riverview. Cameron just stared at him for a while, and then rolled his eyes again.

Losing patience, he reached over and grabbed his friend's left nipple, and giving it a twist. Almost immediately, the blonde-haired football star suddenly jerked up, his eyes opening wide and crying out in sudden pain.

"What? What the hell's going on?!" he cried, panic-stricken, but as soon as he saw Cameron sitting next to him, laughing his head off, his face hardened and he struck his friend in the arm. "Dude, don't do that! You know that hurts like a bitch!"

"It woke you up though, didn't it?" laughed Cameron, but quickly recomposing himself. "Come on man, it's already morning."

"It is?" asked Travis, looking around. "Oh crap, I overslept again, didn't I?"

"Yes, as usual," muttered Cameron, throwing open the door on his side of the vehicle. "Come on; let's go see if they've turned up yet." Travis followed after his friend wordlessly, still feeling a little sheepish over not waking up in good time…again.

The two men threaded their way past parked vehicles and milling army personnel, the latter of which made no attempt to try and stop them, so dead on their feet from fatigue they looked. After several seconds, they came up to a sheltered tent near to the barricaded road, where Lieutenant Fletcher and some other army man were stood, sharing a hushed conversation. They didn't even notice the two civilians as they drew closer.

"Lieutenant! More of those damned things nearly got into the refugee centre last night!" seethed the second man, a sergeant's badge on his shoulder. "If we stay here any longer-"

"Keep your voice down sergeant!" snapped the Lieutenant, before he continued in a hushed manner. "We don't need the people hearing about this, otherwise it'll just cause a panic…we're already stretched to breaking point as it is trying to hold the main routes down. We can't risk overstretching ourselves."

The two friends moved off to the side, observing the conversation through a gap in the tent material. Fletcher's back was to them, and the sergeant standing opposite to him was a short, bullish man with dark hair, brown eyes and thick eyebrows. Cameron realised it was the same man who was being pestered by a news crew for some comment on the situation the day before.

"It's all well and good saying that sir," replied the sergeant, getting agitated as he spoke, "but if you neglect the lesser known routes into the city it's only a matter of time before someone gets the wise idea to try and get into Raccoon by that way…or something else gets out."

"I'll take your views under advisement, Sergeant Bourne," replied the Lieutenant, sounding unconvinced.

"But sir! Those damned things would have been inside this camp if our sentries hadn't have been posted and alert!" continued Sergeant Bourne, getting more and more wound up. "The more we wait-"

"I said I'll take your views under advisement!" snapped Lieutenant Fletcher back, causing Bourne to flinch suddenly. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a refugee centre to be seeing to."

The sergeant continued to glare at his superior officer for a while, before he finally thought better of trying to argue his case further and just turned on his heel and stalked away instead, finding something else more important to do.

Cameron and Travis looked at one another in confusion. What was that all about, they wondered? What did they mean by 'those things' that nearly got into the refugee centre? Something fishy was definitely going in here, but they could hardly ask the Lieutenant about it face-to-face…plausible deniability and all that.

For the moment, the two friends settled for stepping into the tent behind the Lieutenant, whose back was still turned to them. Cameron cleared his throat, and the army man turned to face them, looking caught off guard, before he quickly recomposed himself. "Oh, good morning gentlemen. Did you both sleep well?"

"As well as you could in a car seat," muttered Travis in reply.

"You're always welcome to use one of the free bunks over there," indicated Fletcher, pointing over towards the refugee tent to the side, with line upon line of empty bunks to still be used.

"Other people are needier than us," answered Cameron honestly. "So, erm, any word? About our friends?"

The Lieutenant shook his head sagely. "Sorry, there's been no word from anywhere else. And this centre has had practically no new refugees since yesterday…the situation in the city looks as though it's getting worse."

The two friends just nodded in response. Getting worse in the city…it sounded as though there was little hope left of them getting any good news. Lisa would probably die from grief if they gave her that news.

"OK, thanks anyways Lieutenant," said Cameron eventually. The two of them turned away. Well, Cameron moved to turn away at least. Travis had something he wanted to ask.

"What's really going on, Lieutenant?" he asked, plainly. Cameron suddenly turned back around, his face dumb-founded.

"I'm sorry?" asked Fletcher, smiling a little, confidently.

"We're not deaf," explained Travis, "and most of these refugees I've seen coming in are covered in blood and ranting about being attacked by something or other…and I doubt it looks as though they were a victim of toxic waste."

"Travis!" hissed Cameron, pulling on his friend's sleeve, but Travis pulled himself free. "Ignore him Lieutenant, he bumped his head when he was a kid-"

"-and what was that about 'things' nearly getting into the refugee camp last night? Are we under attack or something?"

Fletcher's face, originally wearing a slight smirk, had begun to lose its smile, instead dropping into a surprised expression. He certainly wasn't expecting someone to come straight up to him and say something like this to him. Did they hear everything he had just been talking to Bourne about? But quickly he recovered and started to talk again.

"I think your imagination is getting the better of you, Mr. Pattinson," the Lieutenant replied, smiling. "Quite a few refugees ended up in traffic accidents and the like, hence their rather…bedraggled appearance. And we've had a lot of trouble with wild animals coming out of the woods at late as well…wolves and bears-"

"Bullshit!" snapped Travis, causing both Cameron and Fletcher to flinch from the sudden outburst. "I've been to Raccoon City a few times, and I know fine well that the Arklay Forest doesn't have wolves, and that the bears it does have rarely go anywhere near where there are humans!"

"Travis!"

"As much as I appreciate your help, Lieutenant, I can't help feel that you aren't telling us the whole story, and frankly I'm sick and tired of waiting around on my ass and being told nothing useful!"

"Travis!" shouted Cameron, finally dragging his friend away, pushing him back towards the parked vehicles. Travis wanted to shout some more, but Cameron was putting himself between his friend and his view of Fletcher, and he had no choice but to be lead away back towards their vehicle.

Fletcher watched them go, and sighed in relief as they did. That had been way too close for comfort. He'd have to be a lot more careful when it came to future meetings with his fellow officers. But then again, he was sort of relieved that somebody had started questioning what was going on. They couldn't keep the truth quiet forever, he supposed, even if they were relying upon orders from high command…and from Umbrella.

The corporation's high executives had insisted that they invent some cover story for the fiasco going on within Raccoon City. A toxic waste spillage…was that the best they could come up with? There wasn't even any kind of waste disposal facility in the Raccoon County area, but people would believe anything if there was a crisis. Personally, Fletcher hated lying, especially when people's lives were at stake on a huge basis, and the almost callous way that Umbrella had suggested that the army lie to people sickened him. It was as though they didn't even care about the potential human losses.

He'd had enough. No more lying for Umbrella's sake. He'd let the world know what was going on, in good time. For the moment, he watched the two young men walking away from the command tent with concern. He was afraid that they'd do something that they'd regret, and he'd have to keep an eye on them for the time being, to make sure they didn't do anything stupid.

"Corporal Greene?" he called, as the unhealthy-looking man passed by the tent entrance. He doubled back and came to a halt before Fletcher, snapping his heels together and saluting smartly.

"Sir?" asked Corporal Greene.

"Keep an eye on those two for me will you?" the officer asked, indicating towards the rapidly disappearing forms of Travis and Cameron walking away into the distance. "Let me know if they do anything suspicious."

"Such as, sir?" asked the corporal.

"Anything at all," replied Fletcher. "Watch them like a hawk."

Dean was busy filling up his side pack with spare handgun magazines when Nick walked into the makeshift armoury.

"Getting loaded up?" asked the U.B.C.S officer. "Sound idea." Dean just nodded in response as he moved onto loading shotgun shells into his pockets and side pack. Mac had long since left the room, and was now downstairs on guard duty with Joel.

"Here," Nick then said, and reached down to the floor, before bringing up a previously untouched M4A1 assault rifle, complete with an under slung M203 grenade launcher. "Waste not, want not, as they say."

"You want me to use that?" asked Dean, staring at the weapon. "I doubt I could manage that."

"After surviving inside this city for a few days, you don't feel like you could handle one of these?" laughed Nick, smiling a little.

"Well, I've used one before, but I doubt I could carry both that and my shotgun-"

"You'll be glad of the extra firepower," replied Nick, pushing it towards Dean. With a sigh of defeat, Dean took the proffered weapon and cradled it in his hands. It was definitely heavier than the last M4 rifle he had used, back at the scene of the barricade massacre, two days previous, probably due to the grenade launcher attached below the main barrel.

"Actually, I think I could manage this," he answered after a pause.

"Ever used an M203?" Nick then asked, pointing to the weapon attachment. Dean just shook his head in response, and Nick moved around to show him the general features of the weapon. "See, you press that button there to fire the weapon…it's not loaded right now so there's no danger of you blowing us all to kingdom come-"

Dean smirked a little at the mental image of him blowing himself and Nick sky high just because he got too careless with hi-explosive weaponry.

"-but to load it up, you click this part forward and load the round into the open tube," Nick continued, clicking the grenade tube open so Dean could see exactly how it worked, "and then just click it back and you'll be ready to go."

"Just like that?" asked Dean.

"Just like that," echoed Nick, before he reached down again and laid out a handful of magazines for the assault rifle on the table next to where they were standing, along with a grenade canister filled with explosive rounds. "Here, use them wisely, and if you can't carry them all, I can always take some of the load for you."

"Thanks," smiled Dean, already setting the rifle down on the table and carefully loading a grenade into the tube, before dropping the rest of them into his nearly full side pack, while also tucking some of the rifle clips into his belt, for easy access. Once he was sure that, he was all set, he slung his shotgun over his shoulder, taking up the rifle in his hands. "So, now what?" he then asked.

"Well Ben and Rob got back from doing a sweep not long ago," explained Nick, "so that means we can look to actually making a move now."

"Good," sighed Dean. "Lead the way." With that, Nick lead the way out of the armoury and back downstairs, where everyone had gathered now, except for Mac, who was stood over by the door, watching the street outside for any sign of danger. Joel and Devlan hovered by the desk with the laptop set up on it, while Will was sat on one of the chairs over by the front of the lobby, playing with a drawn combat knife. Ben was just hovering around at random, but quickly stopped when Dean and Nick reappeared.

"OK people," announced Nick, sitting himself down at the desk and opening a window on the laptop's screen. Everyone else gathered around at his words. "OK, so we are here," the Lieutenant announced, moving the cursor over a digitalised map of the immediate city street area, marked 'Gold Street'. He then moved the cursor to the north-east, stopping over a city block located off of 'Main Street'. "And this is where we're going."

"And where is that exactly?" asked Ben from over Nick's left shoulder.

"It's an office building used by Umbrella's administrative staff," explained Nick. "At least, on the outside it is."

"And inside?" asked Dean, curiously.

"It's a front for the storage of Umbrella's various…creations. At least according to

"Yeah," nodded Devlan. "A list of all the secret Umbrella facilities within Raccoon City was saved onto that PDA, probably a dozen at least."

"Wait, there's that many secret facilities in this city alone?" asked Ben, dumbfounded.

"Umbrella contributed a lot of funding to Raccoon City's construction, remember?" answered Dean, stepping forward. "So it seems likely they'd use that as an excuse to build their little research labs and what not."

"Wait, would that mean the Mayor knew about what Umbrella was up to?" asked Ben, echoing what most of the others were thinking. Dean didn't say anything in response, but internally he was inclined to agree. Umbrella made billions each year, so it wouldn't be so hard for them to have even the local politicians on their side…they had Chief Irons on their payroll, so it wasn't such a huge leap to make.

"But getting back on point," continued Nick, "since it's a front for a storage facility, there could be a chance that there could be some kind of cure for the T-Virus being kept there."

Ben felt his spirit lifted up. "Really? An outright cure? And not some antibody that just delays how long it takes before we turn zombie?" Nick just nodded in response, and Ben's facial expression perked up a little.

"And what if there isn't a cure there?" asked Dean, considering the alternative.

Uncomfortable silence followed.

"Look, if there's any chance of all of us finding a cure, we need to take it!" reasoned Ben, speaking up quickly to dispel the uncomfortable feeling in the air. "It's better than just giving up now!"

"Look, he's right," agreed Mac, looking around the room. "Better than just thinking there's no hope left in this world." Dean shifted in his place, before he relented and nodded in agreement.

"OK then, if we're all in agreement-" Nick then said, passing around several small objects to the people around him. Dean took a look at the small plastic object, complete with a metal part on one end, as if it were to be plugged into something.

"What's this?" he asked, as Ben was handed one as well.

"Storage devices," explained Nick, passing his last one to Mac, still stood over by the door. "Myself and Rob copied all of the information on Taylor's PDA into those, to save us having to lug around that computer. Plug those into another computer ad you'll be able to access all the data stored onto it."

"So…why so many between us all?" asked Dean.

"In case only a couple of us make it," replied Nick, as though it were the most obvious thing ever. Dean just nodded slowly and tucked the storage stick into his pocket.

"OK then, we're leaving in 20 minutes," announced Nick, looking around. "Get everything you need together by then, but leave behind anything that will slow us down. Priority on weaponry, ammo and medical supplies. Now let's do this!" And with that, the U.B.C.S troops moved off in different directions to get their gear together.

Dean walked over to where Ben was and gave him a heart pat on the shoulder. "Just a little longer, and we can kiss this damned place goodbye." Ben nodded in response, as Dean moved away from him and passed by Mac, so he could stand outside.

"Don't go too far, laddie," warned the Scot, as Dean took up a spot at the bottom of the stone steps, and looked out across the empty street, alone with his thoughts.

Well, not completely alone. The corpses of the multiple zombies the U.B.C.S had dealt with in the past still lined the pavements and the tarmac, some face down, but most of them lying on their backs, staring up at the morning sky. He noted how every single one of them was dressed differently. Over there, there was a young man in a white shirt and tie, closer by there was a female teenager dressed up for a night out in a low-cut top and short shirt, and somewhere in the middle of the street he could see an elderly man, still dressed in his night-gown and bedclothes. There was one detail that united all of the bodies in the street though: the fact that they were all covered in dried blood. Raccoon City catered for all kinds of people, but thanks to the T-Virus, all of them had been reduced to the same denomination.

He sighed deeply, and took note of the constant moaning that was threatening to permeate into his subconscious, and never leave him again for as long as he lived. He was desperate to get away from this city; it was tiring him out, both physically and mentally.

But then he listened more intently, and realised that the moaning was sounding a lot closer than he had initially realised. Curiously, he looked down the street to his right.

He had to catch himself when he saw the walking wall of undead approaching from down the street. There had to be hundreds of them: they lined the street from one side to another, and those were just the ones he could see.

"Oh bloody hell," cursed Mac, noticing what had caught Dean's attention. "Nick!" he then shouted over his shoulder, and a couple of seconds later, the U.B.C.S officer emerged outside.

"Oh fuck," was all he could manage, seeing the advancing wall of rotting flesh coming towards them.

"I think we'd better be leaving now!" shouted Dean back at Nick and Mac. The two mercenaries only nodded in response, as they were looking down the street, before quickly vanishing inside again.

"Change of plan, we're leaving! Now!" Dean heard Nick shout as loud as he possibly could. He continued looking down the street at the crowd slowly approaching his position.

At least two hundred of them, he guessed, maybe even more of them bringing up the rear, so to speak. They were about 60 feet away, but they would reach their little fortress eventually, and when that happened they were truly in trouble. They were marching as though they were a legion of Roman soldiers from times of old, although their march was much more haphazard in nature.

The zombie at the very front of the advance, leading the charge, was one that instantly caught Dean's attention. It was a tall, well-built man in his early thirties, a man dressed in the garb of the S.W.A.T team. His helmet had been shorn off of his form, revealing his deathly pale skin, his blonde hair, and the bite wound on his neck. Further bites dotted his arms, the blood staining the black combat gear. Dean had been there, at the barricade on Main Street, where most of the S.W.A.T team had been killed, torn to pieces right before his very eyes. Just looking at that zombified S.W.A.T member bought back very unpleasant memories for him.

Raising his M4 to eye level, he centred the sights over his face and pulled the trigger, freeing the poor man from his curse forever. The top half of his skull disappeared in a mist of crimson droplets, and the former human toppled over in a crumpled heap, dead. The other zombies just marched on, passing by the fallen body as though it were nothing.

"Hurry up guys! We don't have all day!" he shouted back as loud as he could, hoping they heard him. His grip tightened around the M4 in his hands as the zombies approached, slow but surely.

They ran back and forth inside, their boots pounding on the carpeted floors and nearly colliding with one another in their rush to gather up their gear. Joel grabbed a spare S.P.A.S 12 shotgun and slung it over his back using the shoulder strap, and did the same with an M79 grenade launcher that had been left nearby as well. It'd be considered overkill for most people to carry that much firepower, but in Raccoon City even little thing mattered, and Joel could easily manage to carry all of that weaponry, due to his hefty frame. After that, he lifted his M249 in front of him and made his way to the lobby. He passed by Mac, who was busy filling his pouches with as many spare shotgun shells as he could, along with a few spare fragmentation grenades, that he clipped to his vest.

Elsewhere, Nick picked up a pair of SIG Pro pistols, and after twirling them about his fingers like a wild west gunslinger might, before tucking the into the holsters on his legs. Then he grabbed for his assault rifle and worked on taping a combat knife to the underside of the barrel, to act as an improvised bayonet. He didn't plan on getting too close to anything to use it, but there was no harm in being prepared, and a knife worked better than a rifle in close combat situations. Several feet away from him, Robert Devlan stuffed several clips for his rifle into his vest pockets, and holstered a specialised Eagle 6.0 handgun, which he had found in an abandoned gun shop, at his side. It had a small laser scope attached to the top of the barrel, for more accurate shooting, and he felt as though he had an affinity with the weapon, since he was a sniper by trade.

Ben Campbell watched from a nearby window as the horde drew near. It was the R.P.D siege all over again, except now there seemed to be much more zombies than he had encountered at that particular event. The moving mass of bodies stretched back up the open street as far as he could see, and that was a distance of at least 50 feet. It looked as though they would have another major fight on their hands.

"Oh Christ, not again!" he said to himself, remembering how he'd personally blasted through dozens of those undead bastards back at the station with his shotgun. But now the number of zombies approaching their position made the attack on the R.P.D look like a minor skirmish, but he was also with several other survivors, all with a serious amount of sheer firepower between them, so they would at the very least make a good account of themselves if they were all to die here. Outside in the corridor, several pairs of feet stomped back and forth as his companions gathered up anything they possibly needed during their escape. Suddenly, a gloved hand slapped him on the shoulder, and he span around to look into the eyes of the lanky sniper, Robert Devlan.

"Come on officer," he said with a grin. "Let's get out of here, shall we?" Ben smiled, the little confrontation from before totally forgotten now.

"Right behind you," he replied, checking over his sidearm. The sniper just laughed and smiled, before running out of the room to join his friends. Looking about, Ben saw that someone had left a perfectly-good MP5 on one of the desks, along with 5 spare clips for the weapon. Thinking no-one would mind, and needing all the spare firepower he could get, he slung his shotgun over his shoulder and grabbed for the sub-machine gun and the clips, shoving them into his jacket pockets and levelling the gun before him.

All set, he ran out the room and followed the others downstairs.

Dean felt as though he were holding the barricade by himself. Half-protected by the concrete blocks and other detritus, he picked his targets, firing single shots into the approaching throng, around 30 feet away now. Each time he fired, a skull would erupt into red mist and brain matter and a body would hit the tarmac. But each time he shot one zombie down, dozens more marched over it, unrelenting. He really could do with a mini-gun right about now, but he didn't have that luxury.

Nick and Devlan reappeared next to him after a couple of minutes, followed by Ben, McCormack and Will, shouting and jostling as hand grenades were passed around like fruit. The Brit looked out at the large crowd approaching them and his face suddenly dropped.

"Oh fuck," he said simply, checking how much ammunition he had left on him. His M4A1 assault rifle suddenly felt very heavy and useless in his hands. A few seconds later, Joel and Ben appeared, the latter now armed with an MP5, his shotgun slung across his back. He nodded to his partner before he noticed the crowd.

"Enough for both of us, eh?" asked Dean, noticing Ben's worried expression. The comment seemed to make Ben feel better, and he smiled.

"Boss, they're coming from this way too!" cried Devlan, looking down his scope to the left of their position. Everyone's head turned to follow the sniper's voice, where another crowd of zombies were gathering, this one smaller and more dispersed than the first crowd, but there were still enough to warrant them as a serious threat. And they were approaching

"Great…" muttered McCormack as he loaded his Benelli shotgun up with fresh shotgun shells.

"OK people, let's get going!" shouted Nick suddenly as he stepped up onto the make-shift barricade.

"Are you insane?!" asked Will, his voice rising an octave. "We can't go anywhere near those fuckers!"

"You'd rather stay here and try to hold them off?" asked Nick casually, looking back at the medic. Will opened and closed his mouth a few times, thinking of something to say, but he never got a chance to reply.

"He's right!" shouted Dean suddenly, making everyone take attention of the battle-hardened cop. "They're approaching from both sides of the street, they've got us boxed in! And we can't stand and try to hold them off, we've only got so many bullets. We're best off trying to get as far away as possible from them!"

"Sounds like you've become a real seasoned soldier, Dean," replied Mac when Dean had finished his little speech.

"That's enough!" shouted Nick, and everyone instantly shut up. "He's right. If we stand and fight more and more will keep coming, and we don't have enough ammo for every fucking zombie we come across!" A few muffled agreements went up. The moaning suddenly became a lot louder, and looking up, the group realised that the initial zombie crowd were within 20 feet of them now. It was time to go now or risk being overrun.

"Shit!" cried Devlan, levelling his rifle at the nearest zombies.

"OK, we're going now!" shouted Nick, dropping onto the other side of the barricade. "Joel! Dean! Ben! You guys up front, cut us a path through!" The machine gunner seemed to laugh to himself as he began to make his way over the barricade, struggling to heft his M249 over the defence line. Dean and Ben followed after him, taking up positions either side of the big man, staring down the approaching zombies and waiting for the order to move out.

Ben looked over at Dean. "Ready to crack some skulls?" he asked, a smile on his face.

"Ready as I'll ever be," replied Dean, loading a grenade into his M203 and clicking it shut.

"Devlan! Will! You're on rear security!" shouted Nick to the sniper and the medic. "Make sure they don't try to sneak up on us!" The two soldiers went and took up positions next to each other, about 8 feet away from the front end of the line. Nick and McCormack took up a position in between the two small groups, the latter cocking his Benelli as he did so.

"Right!" shouted Nick. "Move out!"

"We're so dead," whined Will.

As one, the group of 7 men began to move slowly and cautiously towards the zombie crowd, who were now picking up a bit more speed as their prey approached. They were hungry and eager to feed upon these tasty morsels of human flesh. But many of them wouldn't get that chance ever again.

The opening volley consisted of a grenade launched by Dean, which slammed into the stomach of a middle-aged woman and swallowed her, and several others, in a thunderous explosion of flame. He quickly loaded another grenade into the under-slung launcher and fired again, blowing another small group into bloody chunks. Ben fired his MP5 on full auto, scoring several headshots before his clip ran out and he quickly reloaded. Joel's huge M249 fired in short bursts, shredding through the zombies like they were made of paper. His gun was intended to be an anti-personnel weapon, and it certainly lived up to that intended role now, punching through flesh, muscle and bone.

Devlan's rifle cracked as he popped the head of a teenager, then shifted his aim and dropped a female police officer with a shot through her heart. Daniels fired his M4 in single-shot mode, carefully picking out the most immediate targets presented to him, usually the zombies that moved faster than the others or which got too close for comfort. At the centre of the group, Nick roared in jubilant laughter as he and Mac scored another 3 kills as they raked the edges of the horde with gunfire. The Lieutenant suddenly pulled out a pair of hand grenades and tossed them into the throng. A second later, countless bodies were tossed around or blown apart by a pair of booming explosions, tearing a hole in the zombie throng that was quickly filled in by fresh bodies.

Another zombie suddenly charged out at Nick, but the officer stepped back and slashed his rifle sideways, his bayonet opening up the monster's throat and cutting through to its spine. It crumpled to the floor, even as a second zombie, a half-naked male that was wasting away, charged forward. Nick's bayonet punched through its forehead and lanced its brain. Blood squirted out from the wound as he dragged the knife free, staining the front of his tactical vest. He turned to Mac, laughing loudly.

"Having fun?" he asked the Scot, over the roar of gunfire.

"Not really," replied Mac, deadpan, as he fired his shotgun, exploding a couple of zombie heads.

Dean nearly tripped over the body of a male zombie with countless holes in its body, but he quickly recovered and fired at an elderly woman ahead of him. There were zombies all around him, everywhere he looked, and he was unnerved by the whole experience. The deathly smell of their flesh and their soulless moaning was coming at him from all directions, his senses working on overload. Last time he'd seen this many zombies they were all coming from in front of him: but here, if he turned his back for too long it would mean a painful death. So he was thankful that he was with several other well-armed men, all of them doing their utmost best to try and keep the horde at bay. He trusted them to watch his back, as long as they had bullets in their guns. Joel's M249 clicked on empty, but he quickly dropped the empty drum and clicked a fresh one in place with unmatched speed. Then his little massacre continued on as if nothing had happened. The few zombies that had advanced in the time it had taken him to reload were quickly cut down again.

For every man there, their view of the world had closed down to the immediate few meters around them. There was little to know except to kill or be killed, and the line upon line of empty white eyes and blank faces ready to kill them. The fact they were in broad daylight, with the sun exposing every gory detail on each zombie's body, just made the experience even more unpleasant to be stuck in.

Ben loaded his third clip into his MP5, only then realising how quickly he'd been going through his ammunition supply. He had to show some restraint: even though killing these freaks made him feel a bit better for his dead comrades that he couldn't save, if he didn't have the bullets for it wouldn't do him much good. He still had his shotgun though, but that was only good at close range, and he didn't want to let them get too close to him. He opened fire again, dropping another pair of zombies at his feet.

They kept moving all through the carnage, only pausing to either reload or make sure that their companions didn't need any assistance or get left too far behind. To stop or to go too slow would end up with them being overwhelmed by their pursuers. They'd only moved about 40 feet from the law office, but every inch was worth it. They marched over the bodies of those they had slain, too many to possibly count, but that didn't matter at the moment. The booming explosions, chattering of automatic weaponry and the deep blasts of a shotgun, combined with the constant moaning of the undead horde surrounding them made an unholy din, and it would be a miracle if they weren't deaf at the end of it all. Chances were you could hear it from the other side of the city. The acid smell of gunpowder was strong in the air and on the tongues of the human survivors. It stung their eyes as well, but they couldn't risk stopping to wipe their eyes clean, otherwise that would be a drop in their defences.

McCormack kicked out at a male zombie in a long trench coat, knocking it down to the ground, and fired a shell into the gaggle behind it, killing a few of them instantly, even as the zombie he had kicked to the floor started to struggle to its feet again.

"Goddamn it!" he shouted, cocking the weapon for another shot. At the rear of the group, Devlan sighted his rifle over the face of a young blonde woman with her face gradually caving in and fired, obliterating her features completely.

"Sorry my dear," the sniper said with remorse.

"What was that?" asked Will, reloading his M4A1 from next to him.

"Nothing," came Devlan's reply. He fired again and again, scoring more perfect headshots.

The group passed by a department store with its front windows smashed in, inviting several more zombies who were loitering inside to start streaming out. Ben saw the new threat coming out of the corner of his eye and reached for one of the hand grenades he'd been given. Tearing the pin out, he held onto it for about a second and a half before tossing it into the group. It bounced once before a sudden explosion rocked the street, swallowing up the department store zombies and nearly knocking half of the survivor column from their feet.

"Shit man, watch where you're throwing those!" cried Joel as he fought to keep his balance.

"Sorry!" shouted back Ben as he armed his MP5 and fixed his aim towards a zombified electrician. A 3-round burst later saw it fall dead to the ground, its face gone.

"I think we're nearly clear!" cried Dean as he realised that the crowd before them was thinning out considerably. The group hardly broke a sweat in finishing off the last few zombies in their path with their gore-covered weapons, and they were finally clear, the only major threat being the large group approaching them from their six.

"OK, we're clear!" shouted Nick. "Let's get out of here! Put some distance between us and them!"

With that, they all broke off from the formation they were holding and sprinted away down the street in a more sparse formation, dodging around solitary zombies that stood in their path and would be considered wasteful if they were to kill each one of them. A short blonde zombie tried to lunge out at Nick as he passed by a wrecked car, but he kicked the monster in the stomach, hard enough to send it sprawling onto the pavement. Behind him, Devlan withdrew his combat knife and drove it through the rotting eyeball of young woman in an evening dress, dropping her like a sack of potatoes.

They turned the corner and kept running on, driven by the adrenaline surging through their bodies. Normally Ben would have keeled over in exhaustion by now, but with so many lives at stake, he was easily putting off stopping for a breather. A tubby zombie with its shirt missing (and exposing its many wounds to the world) suddenly entered his view, moving surprisingly fast for a thing of its size, but he fired his MP5 into its ugly face, dropping it in a shower of crimson. They kept on running, for what seemed like forever, but it was only for about 2 minutes in truth, before Nick finally called out for a halt.

They all leaned forward on their knees, gasping for breath, some of them dropping their weapons to the ground, finally alleviated from holding onto them. Dean could hear a constant ringing in his ears, possibly from being right next to a guy armed with a heavy machine gun.

"So…now…what…do we do?" asked Will, in-between panting and checking his weapon over. Near to him, Mac loaded some fresh shells into his shotgun and looked about him, scanning for any potential threats. But there were none, as the street was practically deserted. A bit too deserted for his liking, so he kept his eyes peeled.

"We find some place to rest up, and then we decide where to go next afterwards," said Nick simply, wiping his eyes clean of gunpowder smoke and looking about him for a short time. His gaze then settled on what looked like an abandoned Raccoon Burger outlet, about 50 feet down the road from them. "That could have some potential," he said, pointing it out. It wasn't a heavily fortified bunker, but it would do for now.

"Well what are we waiting for?" asked Joel, who was already walking down the street. "Let's get going!"

The place wasn't as abandoned as they originally thought.

Nick and Devlan had to clear out a few zombified customers, being careful to use their combat knives to do so, so as not to alert any other zombies that could be in the area to their position. Now they had all taken seats in the spacious eating area, knocking several half-eaten meals onto the sticky floor. None of them were hungry, and even if they were they wouldn't dare take a bite of that crap, especially if it had been left there for at least two days unattended. Was it possible that the virus spread through food as well as through direct contact? They didn't want to take that chance. Devlan and Will stood at the door, looking out onto the street to see if anyone or anything else was coming. The latter looked uncomfortable as hell, while the former was the model of calm, despite the fresh bloodstains on his clothing. In fact, they were all covered from head to toe in fresh gore. Even Dean and Ben, with their relatively fresh clothing taken from the department store, were soaked to the skin.

"I'd better get some fucking overtime pay for all this shit," said Dean as he laid his weapons out on the table in front of him. Ben, who was sitting across from him, just chuckled to himself and flashed a smile of white, which gleamed through his grimy face.

"Always thinking about yourself," replied his friend, "what about me?"

"Oh, I'll request some overtime for you as well, don't worry," he joked, punching his partner in the arm. The two of them laughed, and for a moment their old buddy antics from a time before Raccoon City went belly up.

"But who knows if we'll be lucky enough to get out of this shit hole…" Ben suddenly said, which darkened the atmosphere around the men somewhat. Dean always thought of Raccoon City as home for two years, but now it was nothing more than a death trap that he wanted to get as far away from as possible. Hell, the Arctic Circle would be paradise compared to this.

He placed a reassuring hand on Ben's shoulder. "Don't worry buddy, we'll get away from here in one piece. I swear it." His friend looked up at him.

"Promise?"

"It's a promise," replied Dean. Ben laughed a little and the two of them gave each other a high five. At least my friend's here with me, thought Dean, which should be enough to help me through. He was amazed he hadn't been driven insane by what he'd seen in this damned city.

"Now if you'll excuse me, nature calls," he said, getting to his feet and making sure that his handgun was tucked into his holster and was fully loaded. He was making his way towards the corridor leading towards the gent's bathroom, looking up to see Nick and a few other mercenaries poring over a paper map and the PDA device, both laid out over the main counter. Dean soon found the door he was looking for and stepped inside.

The place was empty, aside from a dead body slumped on one of the toilet seats, his lower jaw missing. Dean carefully closed the stall door, so the man could at least have a small measure of dignity in death. Turning his way back to the urinal, he unzipped his jeans and relieved himself, the sound of urine hitting the urinal surface reaching his ears. He let out a long 'ah', because his bladder was close to bursting and it had been a huge relief to go to the bathroom for once. As he was done, he made his way over to the sink and washed his hands thoroughly, as good hygiene was important, he thought, reaching for some paper towels.

Unlike those damned zombies. He instantly recalled that ungodly stench of decay that they all gave off and wanted to gag.

He was done and left the room, preparing to head back to the main area of the restaurant.

A long, drawn-out moan made him freeze on the spot.

He span around, while drawing his handgun in one fluid motion. It had come from somewhere behind him, and he could see that there was a lone door at the end of the passage, probably a storage room or something. He was about to make a move when he heard foot steps coming up behind him.

"What's wrong Dean?" asked Nick from behind his shoulder.

"Shush!" hissed Dean, not turning around. "There's a freak back there."

"Impossible, we checked this place over and we cleaned them all out!" protested the Lieutenant, before another moan silenced him. He drew his SIG Pro after a few seconds of silence, holding it loosely at his side.

"It's in the storage room," said Dean flatly.

"I'll lead the way," whispered Nick in response, sliding past the cop towards the door into the storage room. Dean made no protest as he followed after him to the door at the end of the hall. Standing next to the door as Dean covered him, Nick gripped the door handle and nodded to his companion, before he threw it open and charged inside, gun raised, Dean followed after him, half-expecting to hear Nick shoot dead a zombie that was hiding in the shadows.

But there was nothing, no sound at all. The storage room was fairly spacious, with numerous shelves lined up down the middle of the room, holding various miscellaneous items from tools to packs of burgers waiting to be cooked and spare clothes for employees. Someone appeared to have opened a packet of candy bars as well, with empty Mars and Snickers wrappers lying upon the floor at his feet. Nick had already rounded the corner ahead of him, aiming his gun barrel all around him. Dean began to follow the mercenary into the room, until he passed by one of the shelving units and heard the sound of lips smacking together and chewing.

He span round and aimed into the dark space, noticing a human figure crouched over another body, blood pooling below the grisly scene. The sound of tearing flesh and splattering blood invaded his ears. Definitely not a pleasant sight. He aimed his weapon towards the figure and shouted out to his companion.

"Found it!"

At the sound of his voice, the creature ceased its actions and slid to its feet. Slid seemed the appropriate description, as the motion was incredibly swift and smooth, moving at least twice as fast as he'd seen other zombies move. Nick appeared next to him as the creature turned to face them.

Dean's eyes widened in shock and his heart nearly leapt into his throat.

"What the fuck?!" he blurted.

It was a zombie all right, but that's where the similarities ended. Its skin was pure crimson red, and at first Dean thought it was covered in blood, but when he saw that blood only stained the front of its dark shirt did he realise that the thing's skin was actually deep red. Where its fingers should have been were long claws at least four inches long, and they looked sharp enough to take his head off. It was wearing some shattered spectacles, along with a blue shirt, black tie and dark dress trousers. A brass tag on the left breast of its shirt read 'manager'.

"Well that's unusual," said Nick in a flat tone. Were it not for the crimson zombie standing before them, he would've found that statement humorous. The creature let out a ragged gasp before it charged at the two armed men, moving at least twice as fast as they'd seen other zombies move during their time in Raccoon. Dean saw one of its clawed arms come up and swipe towards his face with inhuman speed.

"Shit!" he cried, ducking under it and letting the thing pass by him. Nick fired into its torso, but it barely flinched when it was hit, although blood did spray out to indicate it had been wounded. It turned its attention towards the U.B.C.S leader, lunging out at him with lightning speed in an attempt to grab him.

In a move that seemed too quick to process, Nick had drawn his knife and slashed it across the thing's chest, forcing it to back off slightly, before he executed a spinning kick into its stomach, throwing it backwards at least 10 feet. It collided spine-first into a solitary locker and collapsed face-first to the ground. It began to rise to its feet almost as fast as it had fallen, but the locker, already displaced by the strong impact, crashed down onto the beast, flattening it to the ground with the sound of crunching bone. It spasmed slightly, before it lay totally still, blood spilling out from beneath the crumpled heap. The exposed claw fingers twitched, like a spider that had just been stamped on.

Dean looked from the almost comical sight towards Nick. "Nice move."

"Thanks," said the Lieutenant as he put his knife away. He then looked over at the thing that had nearly taken Dean's head off. "What the hell was that supposed to be?"

"No idea," said Dean. "I've never seen anything like that before. Looks like some sort of 'super' zombie though." That kind of made sense, as it was behaving like a zombie before the two of them had entered the room, what with all the moaning and eating human flesh, but it had those wicked claws, the red skin and moved at least twice as fast as the other zombies they'd encountered so far. Were there more of these things elsewhere in the city?

Multiple footsteps were heard, and Devlan, Mac and Will suddenly appeared in the doorway.

"What's going on?" asked McCormack, but then he noticed the dead thing under the locker. "What the hell is that?!"

"My sentiments exactly," muttered Devlan.

"Your guess is as good as mine," said Dean, holstering his handgun. "We found it enjoying a light snack, and it nearly took my face off into the bargain." Ben was now crouching by the body to have a closer look at it, prodding at it with a pencil.

"Hang on," said Devlan suddenly as he forced his way into the room. "That man was dead when we cleared the place out before! He was dead, I'm positive of it!" Nick gazed down at the crimson corpse, and suddenly realised that the sniper was right. He'd seen this man earlier, and he was positively dead then.

"So what?" asked Ben, standing back up. "These zombies are coming back to life now? With upgrades?"

Another dry moan made them all snap their attention into the far corner where two more bodies rose up from the ground, their skin a burning crimson like the one now crushed under a steel locker. They charged towards the gang of still-humans almost instantly, their white eyes seemingly flashing in delight, but they would be denied one last meal. Almost as if on cue, half of the men assembled whipped out their side arms and opened fire on the charging freaks. The first one was clipped in the temple and fell onto its face with a crack, the momentum of its charge causing it to roll over and end up on its back at Nick's feet. The second charged on regardless of the rounds punching into its torso. Only when Dean fired the last of his clip into its torso did it suddenly falter, taking two more steps towards them before it fell flat onto its face with a crump. A deafening silence descended upon the room once more.

"Fuck this!" shouted Will in an almost-hysterical manner as he stormed out of the room, closely followed by Mac, his eyes never leaving the dead bodies of the crimson zombies until he was out of sight of them. Only then did he holster his gun. Ben, Dean and Nick remained in the room for a while longer.

"So how many times have these guys died now? 3 times? Sucks to be them," said Dean sardonically, electing a slight chuckle from Ben. Nick glared at the two of them, as if to say 'this isn't the fucking time or place to joke around'. Instead he removed the PDA device that had originally belonged to the late Taylor

One look at the device instantly brought Dean's mind back to that moment in the zoo. He was about to be tackled from behind by one of those zombified lions, but Taylor shoved him out of harm's way at the last moment, and took a fatal bite to the torso as a result. Dean thought it he was only fast enough to chamber that next rifle round and shoot the beast, he could've saved the scout from another bite, but alas, it wasn't to be. He still hadn't told the other U.B.C.S exactly why their scout had died yet, as he thought if he told them that he died to make sure that the cop lived, they would've have hated him for it. He was alive while their friend was dead.

"Nick…" he started, but the officer cut him off as he read something on the PDA display.

"Taylor's files don't match exactly with those things, but there's something here about body regeneration," he said, causing Ben to walk over and look over his shoulder at what he was reading. "Says here that when a viral carrier is killed, but the brain remains intact, the viral cells regenerate the tissue at a faster rate until the carrier can stand back up."

"So, you're saying these zombies can regenerate themselves even if killed?" asked Ben in disbelief. "That's just unreal." A sudden squelch noise cut them off, and they looked up to see that Dean had stamped down hard on the skull of one of the now dead crimson zombies, to make sure that it didn't get back up anymore. He shook a few flecks of blood off of his shoe.

"Well I bet you didn't believe zombies until recently, am I right?" asked the squad leader. The two cops just nodded slightly in response. "In this place, reality doesn't matter anymore."

A sudden commotion from the front made them all jump.

"Ah! The bastard got me!" cried Joel.

BOOM!

A shotgun went off, followed by the sound of something soft and fleshy erupting.

"Now what?" asked Nick, running back towards the front of the building, closely followed by the two cops.

On the floor lay another of those crimson-skinned zombies, this one dressed in a black shirt with the Raccoon Burger logo on it, and with the top half of its head taken off by a point-blank shotgun blast. Joel and Will were slumped up against the counter, the medic wrapping a sterile bandage around the forearm of the machine-gunner. Mac stood nearby, his shotgun barrel showing a slight trace of smoke wafting from the barrel, while Devlan was stood at the front, watching the street outside and glancing back towards the small scene every now and then to see what was going on.

"What the hell happened?" asked Nick, running over to where his comrade was being treated for his wound.

"That thing just appeared out of no-where and tried to take my sodding face off!" cried the Scot, his hands shaking. "But he got in the way and took the attack for me," he then said, indicating Joel.

"You're welcome," sarcastically quipped the machine-gunner, wincing as the medic tied his wound tighter, streaks of crimson still visible through the white of the bandages. "Good thing I love you, isn't it Mac?"

"That shit isn't funny man!" cried the Scot, still aiming at the headless corpse. "Either of us could've been killed!"

"But you're not, so stop bitching," said Nick flatly, looking at Joel's wound. The Scot looked hurt as he finally lowered his weapon.

"He'll live," said Daniels as he passed a small white pill to Joel, who swallowed it down quickly. "I've given him an anti-viral pill, just in case."

The mention of anti-viral pill made Dean freeze up.

Anyone bitten or scratched by a zombie became one sooner or later. So wouldn't the same rules apply to these crimson zombies? Was Joel going to turn into one of them? Looking at the big man, he could see that he looked fine now, laughing and joking with his cohorts, but for all they knew that virus was ravaging his system now, gradually starting the process of turning him into one of those undead bastards. The pills and the antibodies he had hopefully taken might have stopped him turning, but was that possible? Or was he going to turn into a monster eventually.

"Dean? You OK?" asked Ben from beside him. Dean looked at his friend.

"Y-yeah, I'm good," he said, not sharing any of his concerns with his old friend, despite how horrific they were. Nick and the others were standing over the map of Raccoon City that he was showing to them all.

"OK, we're here," he said, pointing to a corner on what was known as 'Brown Street.' "About half a mile to the east of here is an office building where Umbrella's administrative staff work, on the surface. Below that, as I said before, it's a cover for an Umbrella storage facility."

"You sure of that?" asked Joel, resting upon his M249.

"Not 100%, but it's worth a shot. And there's always the chance that the place will be holding some kind of escape vehicle in case of an emergency, as well as a cure for the T-Virus."

"An emergency like…an outbreak?" asked Ben from the rear of the gathering. The squad leader only nodded in response. The thought of Umbrella keeping their dirty secrets hidden under the noses of the public filled most of them with disgust. Something like this was bound to happen, if that's how they were doing business, thought Ben to himself.

"OK then people," said Nick as he packed away the map and PDA. "We move out in 10 minutes. Be ready by then".

Robert Devlan watched the street outside with little interest. When he and his comrades had first touched down in Raccoon City, it was hell on earth. Countless zombies were striking out at them from every direction, from the shadows of nearby alleyways, from behind closed doors, even through 2nd story windows. The noise was terrific, from the constant moaning, the gunfire, the sound of blood splattering onto the ground, and the screams of the wounded and dying.

But now it was deathly quiet, and that was probably the worst sound of all.

He'd been in smaller outbreaks before, but this one shamed everything else before that, even the chaotic street fighting of Iraq, and the jungle fighting of Africa years before, back when he was in the Marines. He'd do anything to go back to those days; they were bliss compared to this. Why'd the hell he even agree to join the U.B.C.S in the first place?

No use moaning now, he thought. You're stuck here. Deal with it.

The days before, he had lost many of his platoon in the first hour, most of them not following his advice to go for headshots and being overwhelmed as they just unloaded on full auto into the walking dead bearing down on them. He'd lost many good friends in that time, men he'd served with before the U.B.C.S, men he'd come to see as brothers. Men he considered as family. After all, he had little immediate family left, as his mother discarded him like trash as soon as she heard he'd been sent to death row. She never visited him, never replied to any of his letters. It was though he'd been stricken from the family record for all eternity.

His sister, Claudia, was a different matter altogether. She visited him every two weeks, and most of his other cell mates made offensive remarks about what they'd like to do to her. He'd gotten into more than one fight over her; he was just overprotective that was all: it was natural for a big brother to be overprotective. Then when he was bailed out by Umbrella, he asked them to let her think that he'd been executed as planned. He couldn't think what she would say if she found out what he was doing now, cleaning up the mistakes of a clandestine corporation.

His thoughts went to his other friends in the other U.B.C.S platoons. Were they all dead too? Probably, he thought, unless they had taken up cover in other areas of town. He thought about Mikhail, the Russian man who acted as Lieutenant of Alpha Platoon. That man was truly a great leader, and he'd go to the ends of the earth to make sure that all of his men survived a mission. He took each of their deaths hard, but he was still hardened enough not to let it affect his performance on the battlefield. It was just as well, as he was probably one of the best fighters in the history of the U.B.C.S.

The sound of a trashcan being knocked over made him snap back to reality, and he aimed out onto the street. At a street corner about 60 feet to his left, the same street corner they had rounded before, he saw a female zombie shambling by a trashcan, which was now rolling down the street towards their position. It was just one zombie, but she seemed to be approaching their position slowly but surely. If she got too close, he could just pull out his knife and kill her with that, quickly and quietly.

Suddenly, a male appeared from around the corner behind her, his left arm missing and wearing a blood-stained blue vest. He was closely followed by a zombified fireman, his black and yellow uniform slick with gore. Soon two more zombies shambled around the corner, followed by another, and another, and another.

"Oh shit…" whispered the sniper, hoping no-one else heard him. He heard another trashcan being knocked over, and he snapped his sight towards a dark alleyway entrance to his 2 o' clock position, where more zombies were emerging, lead by a huge zombie well over 6 feet tall and wearing an army camouflage jacket. He looked about, noticing even more rotting monsters emerging from behind a crashed van down the road to his right, and there were more behind them. Even further down the street, more zombies appeared to be massing.

Looking back at the street corner where he'd seen the first female zombie emerge from, he saw that a crowd had gathered, nearly 50 of them, all of them with the same vacant expression and hollow look in their eyes. They were pouring out of the alleyways, and from out of doors set into the front of buildings, almost as if someone had opened the tap that distributed zombies. Slowly, they were surrounding the outlet, and the humans holed up inside.

"Boss…"

"Boss…" said a voice from near the window suddenly. The group looked up from their position at the counter over at the sniper stood by the window. Seeing the look of concern on the man's face, Nick made his way over quickly, until he stood by him.

"What is it?" he asked. The sniper just nodded out towards the street. Nick looked around and he didn't react at all initially, taking in the scene around them.

"Oh no…"

Another crowd of flesh-eaters were gradually surrounding the outlet, cutting off their escape. They were coming from everywhere it seemed, from dark alleyways, from the open streets, even out of previously closed doors now being smashed open. The place didn't have a backdoor unfortunately, so if they wanted to get out, they'd have to cut through them all, like they did the first time. He swore to himself as he walked back over towards the counter.

"That's it! We're moving again! Same formation as last time!" he shouted curtly, grabbing his M4A1 and pulling the bolt back. The others started to look at the window and saw the crowd slowly approaching their position and instantly grabbed for and checked their own weaponry.

"Into the maw of hell we go again," whispered Will, grabbing his assault rifle and medical kit off of the counter. .

"Jesus, how many more of those things do we have to carve through?" asked an exasperated Ben, who had already readied and loaded his MP5.

"Well Raccoon City has a population of over 100,000…" said Mac, before he was silenced by a glare from both Ben and Dean. "Sorry," he muttered, sheepishly.

"OK! Use your explosives to clear some room! Out the windows!" shouted Nick, unclipping his grenade belt. As if on cue, Joel picked up a chair and threw it full force through one of the windows, shattering it and scattering glass shards everywhere. Nick quickly pulled the pin on one of the grenades on his belt and threw it as far as he could out of the just-broken window. Following his lead, the others readied their own explosives and the spherical objects followed Nick's explosive surprise out of the window onto the street.

A split second later, over half a dozen explosives rocked the ground, causing everyone to cover their faces from the heat backwash from the grenades going off. Black smoke billowed in through the window, hampering their vision and making their eyes water in some cases. A few seconds passed, and they were able to see outside to see that the crowd had been thinned somewhat, but there were still plenty of zombies left to pose a threat.

"Joel!" shouted Nick, raising his M4. "Get out there and clear the way! Ben and Dean, go help him!"

"Who's first?" asked Joel sarcastically as he booted the door off of its hinges and darted outside, levelling his M249 at the nearest group of zombies. The two cops appeared on either side of him shortly afterwards, and they both gave him a hearty pat on the back. The large man only nodded in acknowledgement before he depressed the trigger. Thunderous booming rang out, and once more, dozens of bodies were blown apart by .50 ammunition. Dean added an M203 grenade into the mix, blowing another hole into the undead ranks and spraying blood back onto them.

"You want a piece of me? Do you? Then come on you fucking bastards!" roared Ben as he fired into the group, going through another 30 rounds in a matter of seconds.

Behind them, the other mercenaries followed them out onto the street, coughing as smoke from the recent grenade blasts invaded their lungs. Their weapons soon joined in with the initial barrage, and even more viral carriers dropped to the floor, many of them completely missing their heads. Devlan had switched to using his Eagle 6.0 handgun, the scope allowing him to score a headshot with practically every shot, its louder crack of its firing sound audible over even Joel's M249. 15 shots later, he dropped the empty magazine and slammed a fresh one in with lightning speed.

McCormack loaded one of his special blue 'enhanced' shells into his Benelli to try them out, and levelled the weapon at an approaching gaggle of zombies. Taking a good hold of the weapon, he pulled the trigger. The shotgun boomed, at least twice as loud as it used to before, and the recoil forced him to take a whole step back. The zombies didn't get off so lightly though: the upper torsos of three of them exploded into a shower of red, while two more were thrown at least 10 feet backwards by the force of the scatter hitting them, knocking over many more in a domino effect and creating some extra breathing room for the survivors.

"Holy shit!" shouted the Scot, looking down at his weapon. Devlan just smirked in amusement as he continued gunning down the zombies before him. McCormack loaded a few more of the blue-coloured shells into his weapon's tube magazine.

Three more zombies came at Dean Travers, his green eyes meeting their empty white eyes. The first one was a man so badly torn into he could see the white bone of his ribs through his stomach. Disgusted, Dean fired a burst into the man's face, obliterating it completely. He was quickly followed by another man who looked like he'd been at the gym before he died, wearing shorts and a white vest. It didn't matter what he'd been doing either way, as the cop switched weapons to his shotgun and sent him flying backwards from view with a shot to the sternum. Finally, the last zombie to attack him was a female dressed for some special occasion in a blue dress, ruined by enormous bloodstains as was her long blonde hair. Her long fingernails raked towards him like they were sickle blades. He hopped back to avoid the attack, but the nails still nicked into his jacket, tearing small holes into the material.

"Bitch!" he shouted, kicking her backwards and firing a shotgun shell into her head, popping it like a water balloon.

"You OK there?" shouted Joel from next to him, dropping yet another empty ammo drum from his machine gun to the ground.

"Yeah…fine," replied Dean, firing off another shell into the throng. "This was a good jacket though…once!" he shouted again, looking down at his soiled and torn denim jacket.

"Don't worry!" laughed the gunner. "It won't matter once you've killed another 50 of these fuckers!"

Their advance was somewhat slower than their first foray into the sea of undead, but they were gradually pushing through, forming a circle of death around themselves. Any zombies that got too close for comfort were shot down, and behind them they had left a trail of bodies, too many to possibly count. The survivors still had a good amount of ammunition on them, but if they stayed any longer in this position they'd find themselves running out at a rapid pace, so they couldn't afford to show down.

"Fuck it!" shouted Ben, as his MP5 had clicked on empty and he'd already used up all his other clips for it. He tossed the empty weapon into the face of a young man in a ripped yellow shirt, causing him to stumble back slightly, before he drew his Remington 870 and cocked it, opening fire once more. He still had plenty of shells for the weapon, at least 40 spare, and hopefully he could make them last for a god period of time.

"God damned zombies!" cried Nick, as he ducked down to avoid the lunge of a zombified construction worker who had charged out of the crowd with a speed unusual for most zombies. He barged his shoulder into the thing's stomach, forcing it backwards, before he drove his bayonet through the monster's forehead with little effort needed. As he pulled it out of the poor man's frontal lobes, he slashed about with it for a few seconds, sending a couple of more former humans staggering backwards, before he opened up with gunfire again. He dropped another empty clip out of the gun and checked his reserves. He was down to his last 3 magazines, so they had to get out of there ASAP.

"We need an exit point, people!" he shouted, slashing his bayonet twice across the chest of a zombified chef, before kicking it to the floor.

"Nearly through!" yelled back Joel, firing another tight burst into the throng. Behind their falling forms, he could see that they were coming up to clear ground, and some much-needed breathing room. He swore to himself as he clicked in yet another bullet drum. "Last magazine!"

"Oh just great," muttered Will from his position at the rear. Once Joel had gone through his next 100 rounds, that would be it for the M249. The gunner still carried an M79 grenade launcher and a S.P.A.S 12 on his back, but they weren't nearly as effective as that M249 in rapidly clearing space. They'd need to switch their formation soon if possible.

"Will!" shouted Nick, over the roar of his M4 rifle. "When his last drum's gone, get up there to give some support!" He flicked his selector to single-shot mode, to preserve his ammo a bit longer. Up front, Ben stepped even further forward, slightly ahead of Joel, and fired again and again into the leading edge of the zombie crowd, forcing them back even further. Zombies moving in to his flank were gunned down without mercy by Will and Devlan.

Joel's machine gun finally clicked onto empty, and he threw the weapon onto the gore-slick ground with a loud clatter, relieved as that heavy weight was finally taken off of his arms. Although he was normally used to carrying that weapon, he hadn't carried it for quite that long in his career. Reaching behind his back he pulled out the M79 grenade launcher he'd been looking forward to using for a while now. Opening the barrel, he checked to see what kind of round he had loaded. An explosive round, which was rather powerful, but boring as well, and Mac had mixed up more powerful varieties of grenade round using the gunpowder they had acquired earlier on.

"Napalm please!" he cried out, just as Will appeared next to him, looking a bit pissed off, but nevertheless willing, as he handed the gunner a red canister containing some flame rounds, which were filled with a napalm gel that would burst out upon contact with a target. Dropping one into the launcher, he clicked it shut and aimed towards the group of rotting bastards ahead of him. "MOVE!" he shouted, seeing that Ben saw what he was planning to do and moved out of the way post-haste just as the gunner pulled the trigger.

The round sailed through the air and made contact with 3 zombies head on, consuming them in bright red flame and showering several more with the fiery gel. Even when covered in the fire they still kept advancing, until the flames got so intense that they just crumbled into ash and bone. He quickly loaded another round into the weapon and fired again, burning several more into piles of ash. He popped the barrel open to ready another round.

"Acid!" he shouted, and was passed a green canister this time. These rounds contained a type of sulphuric acid which burned to the touch, and were probably the most powerful rounds the mercenaries had available to them, aside from freeze rounds, but Mac didn't have the proper materials to create that kind of ammunition. He fired a round at an approaching throng, and immediately several of them collapsed onto the ground, the acid eating away into their unprotected skin in an instant.

"Burn baby!" laughed Mac as he witnessed the scene from his position behind the front group, with Joel firing the launcher at a speed that most of them could only dream of, and Daniels handing him fresh rounds like they were going out of fashion. At a faster pace, a path through the crowd was being cleared.

"We're nearly there! Breakthrough! Breakthrough!" shouted Nick, running towards where the crowd was at its thinnest, firing as he did so. The others quickly followed his lead, opening fire in an attempt to get out of their undead containment. More bodies dropped, and Devlan was the first to break out, knocking a short zombie flying with a Muay-Thai style leaping knee attack, closely followed by McCormack, who cleared a way out with his enhanced shotgun blasts. Soon they had all gotten through, onto an area of the street that was open. Looking back the way they'd came, they were surprised to see that they had only come 50 feet with all of that effort and ammo used.

"Shit…" said Dean.

"Less gawking, more running would be nice!" cried Devlan, as he saw that the crowd were still coming after them in droves.

"Fine by me," replied Nick, stepping away from the approaching zombies. "Let's go! Follow my lead!"

The Lieutenant took off at a sprint, leading his group down Brown Street towards their ultimate destination and what they hoped would be their salvation.

When Cameron couldn't find Travis, he knew only once place he could be. He came up beside the parked pick up truck to find his friend sat inside, trying to start the engine up. He banged on the side window as hard as he could, and Travis nearly hit the ceiling as he jumped in response.

"What the hell are you doing?!" asked Cameron, as Travis rolled the window down.

"Well…it's such a nice day for a drive," replied Travis, innocently.

"I seriously doubt that," replied Cameron, not missing a beat. "Did we forget our last conversation?"

"Umm, something about not going into Raccoon City, I believe?" replied Travis, still sounding as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

"Yes, and?"

"…sorry, still not convinced," snapped Travis, turning the key again and starting the engine. "Come on, there's a side road about 5 miles back down the road, I'm sure we can follow it right into Raccoon City itself!" Cameron put his hands to his head and growled in frustration.

"Are you insane?!" he asked.

"Probably," replied Travis, "but I'm sick of just sitting around and waiting for something to be heard, rather than twiddling our thumbs, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but-"

"But what?" asked Travis. "Besides, you know that I'm such an impatient git anyways."

"But we've no idea what's going on in the city!" reasoned Cameron. "We could be getting ourselves into big trouble!"

"But I know you're sick of waiting to hear something as well!" shouted Travis back, as people in the immediate areas started to take notice. "Come on man, we're a team, aren't we? So don't let me do something real stupid by myself, allright?"

Cameron stood silent for several seconds, before he growled in defeat and quickly ran around to his side of the vehicle, pulling open the door and clambering in.

"Fine!" he said as he pulled his seat belt on. "I'll come along just to make sure you don't do anything _even more_ stupid!"

"Good answer," laughed Travis, as he reversed the truck out of its space, and drove away from the refugee centre.

Standing a short distance away, Corporal Greene observed the red pick up truck pulling away from the line of other parked vehicles, before he turned on his heel and marched back towards the command tent, where Lieutenant Fletcher was busy talking to one of his commanders. He waited patiently until the officer had finished talking, before he snapped into a salute when he finally took notice.

"Sir, those men you asked me to watch have just left the compound," announced the Corporal, staring ahead of him. "They're heading back down the road they arrived by."

Fletcher just nodded, and then after a few seconds he snapped shut the file he'd been holding and dropped it onto his temporary desk, alongside other mountains of paperwork.

"Corporal, get some men together and have them arm and ready themselves."

"Sir, is this a rescue mission?" asked Corporal Greene, nervously.

"I hope it won't come to that," sighed Fletcher, looking away from the Corporal, towards Raccoon City on the horizon. "But we should prepare for any eventuality."


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: And the updates keep getting bigger and bigger. This file alone is about**** 42 pages (in Microsoft Word) big, but I'm definitely having fun in writing these bigger chapters, and I'm sure you guys appreciate it as well. **

Chapter 19: Lost Causes

**September 28****th**** 1206 hours**

"Hold on, I need to rest up."

"You rested up 10 minutes ago!"

Joel had suddenly taken a turn for the worst. Despite doing a great service in killing countless zombies and leading the group to safety when the Raccoon Burger joint had been surrounded, he was now being considered a liability. He was losing his breath and becoming fatigued very quickly now, and this was the third time they had stopped in the last 30 minutes. They had lost the zombie horde pursuing them by slipping through the network of Raccoon's back alleys, but they still couldn't afford to keep stopping like this.

Joel, despite being a healthy man in his mid twenties, had suddenly started to slow down, tiring out more easily than his comrades. He'd be panting for breath after just a few minutes of running, and he started to scratch and pull at his bandaged forearm, an action that would only serve to make it even worse. When they stopped this time, Will strapped a fresh bandage around the wound, and gave Joel a couple of painkillers, since he complained about it hurting again.

"Come on man, what's taking you so long?" asked an exasperated Mac, pacing back and forth down the alleyway. He was still on edge following that last battle, constantly fumbling with his shotgun as he paced about. "He keeps up like this and I say we leave him behind.

"Shut…the fuck up…" replied Devlan in a low and deadly voice, glaring at the Scot. Even the sniper's normally cool demeanour was starting to become strained by the uneasiness being felt in the air. And from the look of Mac's murderous glare, it looked as though some of the U.B.C.S survivors were going to resort to in-fighting.

"Shut it! Both of you!" shouted Nick, glaring at the arguing mercenaries. Both of them huffed and turned away from one another, not noticing the uneasy look on Nick's own face.

"Something on your mind Dean?" asked Ben from behind him. They both stood about 10 feet behind the group, just watching the scene unfold. Back at the outlet, he'd managed to convince himself that Joel would be fine, but now he wasn't so sure.

"I think he might become a zombie," said Dean simply, still staring at the rest of the group. Ben looked at his partner, then back towards the others, his face showing a shocked expression.

"You serious?"

"Come on Ben," was the reply. "We've both seen it. Anyone bitten or scratched by one of those things becomes one sooner or later. No ifs or maybes. Not matter how much you try and write over it."

Ben's face seemed to show resignation to this bleak fact. He sighed deeply. "Yeah, I know. But a large part of me doesn't want him to become one."

"Don't worry man, I feel the same," replied Dean. "Who knows, maybe we'll be able to find a cure for him in good time."

"Yeah, I hope so too," smiled Ben back, but there was an unconvinced feeling behind his words. Dean returned an equally awkward smile, before he walked over to where Will was busy tending to Joel's wound. As he did so, Ben sighed again, more heavily this time.

He was scared, frankly, over the danger that one of the people he was travelling with could turn into a flesh-eating monster at any time. He just hoped that the other U.B.C.S members would be able to tackle the threat when it emerged and not hesitate in shooting what used to be one of their own.

"How is he?" asked Dean, standing over Joel and Will.

"I'll live, "replied Joel weakly. "Guess carrying that S.A.W about made me a bit tired." He flashed a smile, but Dean wasn't fully convinced as he returned his own smile.

"OK then people," shouted Nick suddenly. "Ammo check!"

They stopped to turn out all of their available ammo reserves and make trades if necessary. Nick was down to his last two and a half magazines for his M4, but still had to yet use his handguns, so he had 6 spare clips for those. Devlan still had a full 4 rifle mags left, so he passed one over to Nick, while he found that he only had 30 spare rounds left for his Eagle handgun, enough for two full magazines.

"Here," said Dean, passing him a red box of 9mm rounds. "A spare 30 rounds there, I got plenty left for myself."

"Thanks," replied the sniper gratefully, taking out a few empty magazines and filling them back up with loose 9mm rounds.

Mac still had 9 enhanced shotgun shells with him, along with 26 spare regular shells. Like most of them, he was yet to use his sidearm, complete with several full magazines, and he still carried about 3 hand grenades on him. Will had 4 spare rifle mags yet to use, and he hadn't used his sidearm much either. Finally, Joel had his M79 grenade launcher on him, with a full canister of explosive rounds, and half a canister each of acid and napalm rounds, along with that S.P.A.S 12 shotgun he still had strapped to his back, with 32 spare shells, along with 4 hand grenades still to use.

Dean's M4 had a half-full magazine still loaded into it, along with 2 spare full magazines left over, along with 5 spare grenades for his M203. His shotgun hadn't been used much, as had his Beretta, so he still had plenty of ammo for each. Ben meanwhile had discarded his MP5 sometime earlier (Dean hadn't noticed that, too busy with concentrating on his own viewpoint), and had been using his Remington instead. He had about 20 spare shells left for it, along with 5 mags for his Beretta, which hadn't been drawn for a while now. Dean slid over a box of shells for his friend.

"There's 14 in there, use them wisely."

"Thanks," replied Ben as he added the shells into his own stockpile.

"OK, we're all done," said Nick, and they all got up to their feet, Joel taking more time than the others to do so, his face showing great difficulty as he struggled up to his feet. "Let's get going, we don't have all day."

During their little break, a single zombie had suddenly appeared from around the corner ahead of them and was now stood about 15 feet away, just lightly swaying on its feet and staring towards the floor. It was a male, about Dean's age, and wearing a Che Guevera shirt, torn and sodden with blood, along with dark jeans. The man's long dark hair was covering his face, and they could see a maggot-infested wound on his scalp. Even if every zombie looked a bit different from the last, they were still the same essentially. Nick simply raised his SIG Pro and put a bullet into the top of the guy's head. He crumpled to the floor shortly afterwards, blood leaking out of the hole in its forehead.

"Come on, let's keep going," he said, holstering the sidearm and walking off.

"Admit it, we're lost."

"I never get lost, so no."

They'd driven back down the highway, and turning off onto that side road Travis had pointed out, but it was more akin to a dirt track rather than a proper road, and the pick up truck was barely able to drive down it. Going at a slow speed, through countless potholes and past whipping tree branches, they drove until they came to a picnic area after about 10 minutes. At that point the forest became too thick for vehicles to traverse, so after another 5 minutes of arguing, they decided to continue on foot, and despite the fact that they didn't have a map and neither of them were experienced trackers, they kept walking.

Travis had lead the way on the little hike, down the beaten dirt path, through clusters of trees, down and out of creeks and empty riverbeds, and as far as Cameron was concerned, around in circles. He swore they had walked past the same tree at least twice.

"No, we are lost, and you're an idiot," stated Cameron, arms folded. They were stood in a small clearing, among the long grass which went up to their knees. The morning dew was still present, and the lower halves of his jeans were soaked. In addition, his shoes weren't suited to the conditions they were walking through, and were caked in mud. There was a fairly cold breeze blowing as well, and Cameron hugged his arms tight to him. He wished he'd packed a warmer coat. Travis showed no sign of feeling the cold though.

"No, it's just a minor setback," argued Travis, sorting through the sticks on the forest floor, before picking up a long, sturdy piece of wood to use as a walking stick. "We keep heading in that direction, and we're bound to find the city limits." He was pointing in a random direction, by the looks of it.

Cameron rolled his eyes. "Nice to hear you're so confident of that," he said, sarcastically.

"Well, I didn't bring a compass. Did you, genius?"

No answer.

"Thought not," smirked Travis.

"One thing bugs me though," noted Cameron, looking around. "It's so damned quiet here…"

"What do you mean, man?" asked Travis, quizzically.

"Well, where are the birds, the other animals?" pointed out Cameron. "We're in a forest, but I haven't seen or heard any other animal since we got here, have you?"

Travis paused and listened. His friend was right. Arklay Forest was known to support all kinds of life, but he hadn't heard anything since they had set foot within the woods. No chirping of birds, no insect calls, nothing. It was as though the forest had become totally abandoned in the wake of the disaster occurring in the city. The silence was totally unnerving.

"Yeah…you're right," said Travis finally. "I wonder what the hell happened."

"Whatever it is, I don't want to stay here for too long," replied Cameron, uneasily. "I've got the creeps just standing here. We should keep going."

"Yeah," nodded Travis, turning towards the edge of the clearing. "Come on, this way."

"You sure?" asked Cameron, unconvinced.

"Look, let's just go, OK?" replied Travis, losing patience. "If we get lost, you can take over, allright?"

"Deal," muttered Cameron after a short pause. He was already moving to follow Travis' lead.

They kept on walking, pushing through the thick trees, eventually coming onto another path, less-beaten than the one they had originally arrived by, but still useable, so they started to follow that one, Travis out in front and Cameron trailing behind a short distance. Dead leaves and twigs crunched constantly underneath their feet, giving a little reassurance to the two men, but otherwise there was a dead silence. Cameron was constantly glancing through the trees either side of them, convinced he could see dark, shifting forms moving around, but when he concentrated and looked closer, he saw nothing. Maybe he was just seeing things? The prevailing silence in the woods was seriously creeping him out, leaving him on edge.

Eventually, the path opened out into another clearing, wider than the last one they had found themselves in, and next to a small filled with algae-infested water. What made this clearing different was the fact someone had apparently set up camp here: a pair of tents had been put up, around the burnt-out remains of a small campfire, a tiny wisp of smoke trailing upwards into the sky.

"Thank God, there's someone else in this damned forest," muttered Travis, already walking forward to examine the campsite. Cameron looked around, before he walked up to the burnt-out campfire and looked down at it. This fire had last been used only some hours ago, he reckoned.

Travis glanced inside each tent in turn, seeing that each had similar contents: an empty nut slept-in sleeping bag, empty food wrappers, and a lantern hanging from the top of each one. In one tent though, he found something shiny stuck into the damp soil: a pocket knife, its keen, curved blade stained with dried blood. He turned it over in his hands and wiped away the blood from one side on the side of his jeans, exposing a single line engraved into the blade.

_To my first and forever love, Caroline._

At the shore of the lake, Cameron looked out across its surface. He couldn't see anything at the edge of the forest on the opposite shore, so thick were the trees over there. He could see something bobbing in the lake a short distance away from him as well, but he guessed that it was just a dead tree of some sort, and ignored it. He looked up, seeing how the sun was partially obscured behind one of the snow-capped mountains on the horizon, the famed Arklay Mountains. Even if the sun was at its highest point in the sky for the time of day, he still shivered from the cold. His gaze returned to the shore he was stood on, and he saw something nestled in the reeds at the very edge of the water.

It was a hiking boot, discarded and covered in mud.

Curiously, he stooped down and picked it up, turning it over in his hands. It was pretty much intact, except the laces had been ripped out with considerable force. It looked as though the boot had been ripped off of someone's foot during a struggle. It was of a small size, possibly belonging to either a female, or someone younger than him. It was also stained with something dark and red.

He turned the boot over again and suddenly realised someone's foot was still inside.

"Shit!" he cried, dropping the boot and taking a step backwards. There were rushed footsteps from behind him, and Travis reappeared next to him.

"What? What is it?" he asked, breathlessly.

Cameron just pointed down to the discarded hiking boot, and Travis followed his friend's pointing finger, seeing the boot with a severed foot still inside it. He saw the exposed layers of muscle, and the shiny white bones, which had been literally ripped off.

"Jesus," he whispered, staring in shock. Then he looked up and saw the thing floating in the lake come drifting slowly towards them. "And what's that?"

Cameron looked up, his face suddenly turning very pale indeed. The floating mass came a little closer to them, before it suddenly turned over, lapping in the water. He suddenly saw what it was, and cried out in horror, stumbling back to get away from it.

It was a dead body. Travis couldn't see all the details from where he was stood, but he could see enough to tell that it was a female dressed in warm clothes, including a blue sweater underneath a waterproof coat, and wearing a crumpled rucksack on her back. Her long blonde hair was trailing freely in the water, but the rest of her face couldn't be made out: it looked as though her flesh had been ripped away from the bone. Her arms and torso seemed to be riddled with bite wounds as well, almost as though a pack of wolves had done a number on her.

But wolves didn't live in the Arklay region.

He turned back to Cameron, who by now had gotten to his feet and was emptying his guts at the edge of the trees. He was standing over a wide pool of vomit, but he continued to retch. Cameron never really liked blood: he used to pass out at the sight of it, back when he was younger. And even as he got older he still got queasy just looking at it.

"Are you going to be OK dude?" Travis asked his friend, coming up next to him and patting him on the shoulder. Cameron spat out a mouthful of salvia and vomit, nodding in answer. He was sweating and his face had turned pale in colour. That done, they both looked over their shoulders, down towards the shore of the pond, where the macabre discovery had come to rest now.

"What the hell happened to her?" asked Cameron, still gulping in big breaths of air. "It looks like she got savaged by a bear!"

"I don't know, man," replied Travis, looking around the clearing. "But something is definitely wrong here."

"Gee, you think?!" asked Cameron, his voice rich with sarcasm. He straightened himself up and walked over to next to the campfire. He looked down at the grass and saw that it was damp with something other than dew. Something dark and red. "There's blood on the grass here," he pointed out. Despite the uneasy feeling that was returning in his gut, he kept himself composed.

Travis considered showing Cameron the blood-stained knife he had found, but thought twice of it after seeing what had happened to his friend and instead tucked it absent-mindedly into the back of his jeans, out of sight. "Well whatever happened, something got to that hiker. Poor girl; no-one deserves to die like that."

"So what do we do then?" asked Cameron. "Do we go back, or do we go on? And what about her?" That last comment was directed towards the poor hiker's body, still bobbing gently at the kale shore.

Travis said nothing initially. What could they do? Common sense told him to run back to the truck, call the police and report that someone had been brutally murdered and left to drift in a lake in the middle of Arklay Forest. But then again, they weren't supposed to be here in the first place, and they had walked pretty far already. If they tried going back, they might get lost again. And they couldn't just carry a body around with them, could they?

"We keep going."

"What?!" asked Cameron, his voice rising. "What if whatever killed that hiker is still out there? We could be the ones floating face down in the lake!" The fear in his voice was plain to hear.

"We're not even supposed to be here, Cam," reasoned Travis, his voice low and soft in tone. "We go back, we could find ourselves arrested, or get lost trying to find a way back. We keep going, there's a chance we can find some semblance of safety."

"And if we don't?"

"Then we run like hell, simple as that."

"Fair deal," smiled Cameron, stiffly. "And what about her?"

"We leave her," replied Travis, not missing a beat. "It sucks, I know, but we can't carry her with us." Cameron seemed satisfied with the answer, and nodded slowly.

"Fine. So are we going or what?"

"Yeah," nodded Travis, already moving towards the clearing exit opposite the one they entered from. Cameron hurried after him, and they left the abandoned camping site, and its gruesome details, behind.

They walked on through a network of enclosed courtyards, Joel managing to keep going for longer this time, and he hadn't stopped to rest yet. Good for all of us, thought Dean to himself, but he didn't dare say it out loud, lest the other mercenaries take it personally. Joel kept a smile on his face most of the time, but it looked forced.

Suddenly, the group came to a halt, and Dean and Ben nearly collided with McCormack's back. "Hey, what's the hold up?" he asked, but then he looked past the mercenaries and saw that no explanation would be needed.

"Damn…" muttered Ben, to no-one in particular.

The next open area was covered in corpses. It was impossible to tell how many there was supposed to be, as they were piled atop of one another, or some of them were in pieces. Literally. Severed limbs and heads lay here and there, small pools of blood beneath where they were lying. Dean caught the gaze of a young man lying seven feet away from him, his blue eyes open and his mouth opened as wide as possible, in an expression of pure terror. The man's head lay about 7 feet away from the rest of his body. Dean gagged, putting his hand over his mouth quickly.

The blood was the worst part though, as it was splattered across the ground and even up the walls in some places, at least 12 feet up the brick work. The blood was already becoming sticky and congealed, so some time must have passed since this massacre had occurred.

The powerful smell of copper reached into Ben's nostrils, and he failed to suppress his urge to vomit.

He ran over to an open trashcan and vomited into it, retching as bile and the half-digested remains of his last meal, including potato chips and a cheese and ham sandwich, were brought back up. He was quickly followed by Will, who practically shoved Ben aside so he could empty his guts into a trashcan that hadn't been defiled yet.

"Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened here?!" half-shouted Mac, looking about him nervously. His shotgun was clearly shaking in his clenched hands.

"OK people," said Nick sternly, but the wobble in his voice didn't disguise his own uneasy feelings. For a second, Dean saw the Lieutenant's expression and realised that he looked as unnerved as the general mood was. "Let's just keep going. Get out of here before whatever did this comes back."

Among the body count, familiar bodies were picked out. At least 5 U.B.C.S mercenaries were lying in broken shapes, blood pooled beneath them. All of them had weapons on them, but the carpet of shell casings surrounding each one suggested that they'd exhausted all of their ammunition fighting some invisible foe: overtaken by panic, they had just fired their weapons indiscriminately in every direction, hoping to hit something. Indeed, some of the walls in the courtyard were riddled with bullet holes.

"Goddamn it," sighed Mac, looking down at the body of a brown-haired man at his feet, "it's Davis."

"Who's that?" asked Ben, after spitting out a mouthful of spittle with some dregs of vomit still in it.

"He's a sergeant in Charlie platoon," explained Mac. "Damn it, he always survived before!"

"Looks as though they were trying to get these people to safety," observed Nick, walking around the grisly scene and taking note of what he could see. "But something got to them. What could it have been?"

Devlan stared down at the body of a blonde-haired U.B.C.S soldier lying at his feet, his chest split open cleanly down the middle, exposing his ribs and his ruined internal organs. He was holding two halves of a S.P.A.S 12 shotgun, the large gun literally split in half by the same force that had opened up his own torso neatly. He had lifted it in a vain attempt to defend himself, but it had failed him miserably.

Devlan had seen something like this before…on more than one occasion.

"No…" whispered the sniper. Dean noticed the man's reaction, even as he moved around to grip a hold of Nick's arm. "Boss, we need to go now!" he said now, his voice rising. "You know fine well what caused this mess!"

"Yeah, I do," sighed Nick, sweat already forming on his forehead. "Come on people, we're leaving…now!" But they didn't get a chance to.

A piercing shriek filled the air, and they all nearly jumped out of their skin at the noise, raising their weapons and aiming them in every direction to try and find what it was making that damned noise. Even Joel was fully alert and ready at the horrific sound. Ben was the only one not aiming his weapon, and instead seemed fixated on something up in the sky. Then he pointed out with his index finger.

"Look!" he cried. Dean spun around and looked to where his partner was pointing, to one of the fire escapes high up on the buildings surrounding them.

A vaguely-humanoid, hunched figure was stood atop the highest level of the fire escape, just watching them. It was partially in the shadows and so he couldn't be sure, but Dean swore that whatever it was had a skin made of green scales, like a reptile. He could make out the light reflecting off of its evil, yellow eyes as well. Before anything could be done or said or done, the figure suddenly leapt off of its perch, making a sound like a bird's chirrup.

It landed neatly on its feet ahead of them, despite having fallen nearly 30 feet. Every gun that was being held in the group's arms aimed towards this new threat. Now Dean could make out its features clearly, and his eyes almost fell out of his head as he took the details in.

"What in God's name…?"

It was shorter than him, about 5 and half feet tall, and it was covered in green scales, with a lighter shade on its underbelly in contrast to a darker green of its legs, shoulders and back. Small spines protruded from its shoulders as well. It face was pretty terrifying it had to be said, as it resembled some sort of warped reptile as well, with needle-like teeth and yellow eyes with black slits like a cat's pupil. It didn't have fingers or toes either: instead its digits were replaced with claws, these ones long enough to make even those crimson zombies back at the Raccoon Burger look like nothing, being over 6 inches long at least. The same features he had been shown during their little demonstration of Umbrella's past deeds back at the Law Office. What had they called this? A Hunter?

After what seemed like an eternity of just staring them down, the creature finally threw its head back and let off another shriek, this time the sound being almost unbearable, and more chirrups were heard. A few seconds later, two more monsters landed in the courtyard, either side of the first one. They all bore the same demented grin of needle-like teeth as they appeared to be sizing up their next victims. Dean could see that the new arrivals were covered in blood from the waist up. It wouldn't take a genius to figure out that these things were the ones responsible for the little massacre they had just come across.

"Oh fuck," whined Mac, his shotgun shaking in his hands.

"LOCK AND FUCKING LOAD PEOPLE!" roared Nick as he depressed the trigger on his rifle.

Everyone in the group opened up at the same time. The first monster was caught in the torso and thrown backwards as countless rounds tore into its body, letting off another shriek as it collapsed onto its back, twitched and never moved again. The others though leapt out the way of the barrage though, moving with a speed unlike anything Dean had seen so far. They darted around like quicksilver, just green blurs for split second intervals. One of the beasts landed on a wall, its claws digging in to help it gain purchase, before it launched itself towards them like a missile, its claws poised to strike.

"Holy-" blurted Dean as it came at him, too fast for him to react.

BOOM!

A shotgun went off and the thing was blown backwards, blood exploding from its upper body. Dean looked behind him to see Ben standing just next to him, cocking a new round into his Remington.

"Come on Dean, you're slowing down," he said in a joking tone. Dean just ignored him, fixated on the lizard thing that had gotten back to its feet, despite the huge wound in its torso. He stared into its face as it rose, screaming in fury, fresh blood dripping down its torso and arms. It raised its claws and charged, as Dean finally fired his M4, destroying its face in a shower of skull fragments and blood.

Will, Nick and Joel fired their weapons in every direction possible, trying to get a bead upon the third lizard monster that leapt this way and that, becoming a green blur to some extents. Their shots exploded bricks and dust and rubble began to fall down upon them. The creature was bounding all over the place like a hyper-active feline, bounding from atop a steel dumpster to the roof of a small storage shed onto a fire escape, bullets whizzing past its form as it moved like quicksilver.

"Stay the fuck still!" roared the medic as his last burst went wide again and he realised he was close to reloading. Then there was a loud crack and the beast was suddenly caught in the stomach and punched backwards through the air, falling several feet to the ground and landing on its head with a crunch. The group turned to see Devlan standing there, his rifle raised and smoke billowing from the barrel.

"You were better off waiting for it to slow down," he said casually, as if it were bleeding obvious. Dean had made his way over to the most recent kill by the time they had turned around, giving it a couple of good kicks to make sure it stayed dead.

"Those were Hunters, right?" asked Ben, looking down at the closest scaly corpse.

"MA-121, to be exact," said Devlan from the back of the group as he stared at the body of one of the dead beasts. "Hunter Alpha."

_Sounds fucking appropriate somehow, _mused Dean, observing the dagger-like claws on the dead creatures.

"One of Umbrella's most successful bio weapons," continued Devlan, since no-one had said anything else to him. "When the virus destroys a settlement, they release these things in to hunt down anyone who managed to survive the original outbreak."

"That's just messed up," said Ben, shaking his head sadly. "Almost as if they wanted no-one to survive, kill any witnesses…how callous can they get?"

"Yes, they could," replied Devlan in a prickly manner. "Whatever you do, don't underestimate them. On my first mission with the U.B.C.S, just one of those things killed half of my squad in seconds."

"Oh don't worry, I know just what to give them," smiled Mac, raising his shotgun for effect. "t involves me shoving this up their arses and pulling the trigger." The others were about to laugh, when a familiar piercing shriek cut them all off.

Followed by another, and another, and another. Dean aimed his rifle towards the rooftops, where hunched, scaly figures were beginning to materialize, peering down at the humans below them.

"Oh no…" he said.

"Oh Christ, we need to get out of here!" cried Mac, who began to make a run for it, despite his detailed explanation of what he was going to do to any other Hunters they came across, but he was stopped as Nick clamped a hand down on his shoulder and pulled him back.

"We're not running," he said, his face set in a stern expression. "I thought you were made of stronger stuff, Mac? You don't run from Hunters, if you do you're already dead. We stand and fight." He pulled back the bolt on his M4 to show that he meant business.

At his words, everyone slowly pulled themselves in, forming a tight circle of guns and making sure that they had every possible position covered. The shrieking continued for several more seconds, even more figures appearing on the rooftops surrounding their position. Dean could see at least 5 from where he was stood, in between Ben and Nick, but he didn't dare look around to see if he could make anymore out.

Then with that characteristic chirruping sound, the figures began to descend, falling down upon the group like they were angels of death, the light catching their claws in a menacing manner. As they got closer, Dean could see that some of them looked a bit different, having a darker coloured skin, along with red lumps covering their upper bodies and shoulders. Still didn't make a difference though. Both types wanted to kill them messily.

"Kill them all!" shouted Nick, as he opened fire. His salvo caught a Hunter in the stomach, the rounds spraying out of its back and causing it to fall head-first onto a dumpster. All around him, everyone else discharged their weapons at once, the sound almost deafening. Using his S.P.A.S 12, Joel decapitated a dark-skinned Hunter as it descended, before he cocked the gun and fired another two shots at a green one, the buckshot only winging it and making it fall to the ground, before it got to its feet and tried to charge at him, until Will dropped it with a few bursts into its face.

Devlan had switched to his Eagle handgun, firing 8 rounds into a Hunter as it landed 7 feet ahead of him and charged, claws raised. It barely flinched as the 9mm rounds punched into its body, but the last round blew off its top jaw, causing it to slump at his feet, blood pumping out from its wounds. Next to him, Mac waited patiently as two of the beasts landed ahead of him and approached before he fired an enhanced shell at them. The force of the blast was enough to send both of them flying backwards, one of them with a severed leg, leaving it to writhe about on the ground, shrieking in rage, trailing blood behind it. The second one quickly kipped back to its feet and launched itself into the air, coming down towards the Scot, until he fired another shell into its form, blowing it backwards and completely decimating its upper torso.

Dean and Ben fired at shapes all around them, their forms moving too quick to try and get a decent bead upon them. A dark-skinned Hunter perched itself on a dumpster and leapt into the air towards them, claws raised to strike out at anyone unlucky enough to get in range. Dean aimed up and fired the rest of his magazine on full auto through the monster's stomach. It shrieked and cried out as several 5.56 calibre rounds punched through it, holding it in the air until it finally crashed to the cold, unforgiving ground. He began to slam a fresh clip home when Ben shoved him sideways.

"Heads up!" he cried, firing 2 shots into the form of yet another Hunter that was inches away from slicing into Dean's side. The blasts exploded its face and torso and made it collapse onto its front, bleeding out in seconds.

Ben looked at his friend's stern face and gave a smile. "God thing I'm watching your back, isn't it?" Dean just scoffed in reply as he finished reloading his M4A1 and resumed firing.

They'd killed at least 7 of the freaks now, but more of them still came, seemingly dropping from the heavens to attack.

_Where the fuck are they all coming from?! _Asked Dean to himself, as he shot an approaching Hunter through the eyes.

Bodies were mounting up, but they hard-pressed to keep up with the attacking monsters, as a few of the mercenaries were caught off guard as they stopped to reload, but luckily their companions were there to cover them as they did so. Mac dropped a couple of shells onto the ground as he was fumbling to reload, shifting his body's position to avoid a savage slash aimed at his torso. He kicked the Hunter in the face, knocking it back before he brought his shotgun back, wielding it like a club and striking the monster in the face with a savage blow. It shrieked as a few of its teeth were knocked out, blood spraying across the ground. As it staged sideways, Joel adjusted his aim from next to him and decapitated the monster with a point-blank shot.

"Goddamned fucking froggies!" shouted Mac, as he finished reloading his man weapon, and fixed his aim towards another of the monsters approaching him.

"Fuck!" cried Nick, as he fell to the floor to narrowly avoid a slash aimed at his face. Looking up as the Hunter towered over him, he watched as Devlan's handgun was suddenly shoved into its snarling maw, and the trigger was pulled 4 times, blowing out the back of the creature's skull. The sniper helped his superior to his feet before he holstered the handgun and drew his rifle instead, checking the magazine as he did so.

"Shit!" he said, firing a round into a wounded Hunter writhing about on the ground, one of its legs severed at the knee. "I've faced these fuckers before, but never so many at once!"

"I know!" shouted Nick back, shooting another Hunter out of the flight.

"Where the hell did they all come from?" cried Devlan, stopping to reload his rifle.

"Who cares right now? Just kill them!" shouted Nick back.

"Oh that I can definitely do!" retorted the sniper, as he fired at another Hunter clinging to the wall.

Nick felt his stomach contract as he looked out over the rest of the survivors. They were being forced in closer and closer to each other, and soon there'd be nowhere left to run to, and it was always better to do something rather than stand and fight.

"OK people!" he shouted as loud as he could over the gunfire. "Split up! Make pairs and take up good positions at the walls!"

"What?" cried Will back as he slammed another new magazine into his M4. "We'll be backing ourselves into the corners!"

"We're already backed-up as it is!" shouted Nick back, slashing his bayonet across a Hunter's exposed chest, cutting it open, before he fired into its face and dropped it to the ground. "So move it!"

The group soon peeled off into pairs, Mac and Joel taking up a position next to a half-full dumpster, Will and Nick crouching down by the corner of a small brick shack, while Devlan ran over to where the two cops, Dean and Ben, were too busy trying to drop a pair of Hunters to notice what was happening behind them. The gunfire had drowned out Nick's instructions, and now they were stood by themselves, in danger of being overrun. Devlan practically grabbed Dean by the scruff of the neck and pulled him into a position by the wall underneath a fire escape.

"What's the big i-"

"He's saving our asses!" shouted back Ben, cutting his partner off mid-sentence. He aimed at a Hunter flying at them with claws and teeth bared, but he dropped it with a point-blank shotgun blast to the torso. Devlan took aim as a green figure landed atop the shack where Will and Nick were taking cover, firing 3 shots through its side in rapid succession. It crumpled from its perch and landed behind Will, who turned at the sound of the body hitting the ground and nearly jumped out of his skin as a result.

Dean watched as a trio of dark-skinned Hunters dropped down into the courtyard where the group had been gathered moments before, and set their beady eyes upon him hungrily. Did these things even eat human flesh? Or did they just cut you into little pieces and leave it at that?

_And I thought zombies were bad.__ I should be dead by now!_

They cried out and ran towards him, claws bared. With little time to think, he lowered his rifle and pulled the trigger for the M203. With a bang and a whoosh, the round caught the left Hunter in the gut, blowing it apart in a blossoming flame. Its blood, liquefied organs and pieces of scaly skin splattered onto everything around it. The other one was thrown into the air by the shockwave, shrieking in rage before it to crashed head first into a stack of trashcans, breaking its neck in the process. It flopped down among the clattering objects, limply.

"Holy shit!" he cried afterwards, amazed at what had just happened. His companions didn't notice, too busy were they with killing the Hunters that continued to drop down around them. Will, who had tried to keep count of how many they had killed overall, had long since lost count. Devlan fired up at one clinging to the wall, bringing it back down to earth in a shower of crimson.

Joel fired at a Hunter that was gradually drawing closer to him and Mac, taking small hopping motions to close the distance between the two of them. He fired his shotgun at it, but he missed with each shot. By the time it was within 10 feet, he had missed three times. Every time he went to pull the trigger, his vision blurred, and the monster split into three doppelgangers, forcing him to fire at the wrong one. But his fourth shot hit the mark, blowing a smoking crater through the creature's chest region. As the shrieking beats flopped to the floor, he rubbed his eyes and sighed. He felt as though each little action was taking an ungodly toll upon him, no matter how insignificant. It felt like running up a steep mountain, when he had run to take cover over at the wall.

It was the damned virus, he knew it. When that crimson zombie had scratched his arm back at the Raccoon Burger joint, it had just been a light wound. But about half an hour after he'd taken that wound, he'd started to tire out quickly, despite the fact he was a well-built man in good physical health. No way should the virus have worked that quickly…unless it was already in his body, slowly ravaging his system, and the recent wound just allowed it to flood into his body en mass. If that were the case, he was already dead.

He looked up at the scene around him. The deafening roar of gunfire filtered away, gradually, and everything seemed to slow down. He observed as Hunters descended from the rooftops, almost cat-like in their motions. He saw one of them run at Nick, and then being winged by rifle fire, the bullets stitching a line from its stomach and up to its face. He watched with morbid intent as a round exploded its face, sending shards of bone and liquefied brain matter falling to the ground.

These monsters were designed to be the ultimate killing machines. They would kill every single human they could find, including their little group that had happened to wander into their territory. Joel Setzer might soon succumb to the virus, but before that he would kill as many of these bastards as he could. He dropped the shotgun next to him and brought out the M79 launcher instead.

He loaded the weapon and fired an acid round into the chest of an approaching light green Hunter, burning it to death in an instant. It thrashed its limbs as it fell to the ground, shrieking in agony. He grimaced from the sight and sound of the scene as he dropped a fresh round into the weapon and fired it at another Hunter that was leaping straight toward him, bringing it down as quickly as his first victim. He nearly dropped the weapon after that, coughing and gasping for breath. Something in his body had taken a turn for the worse and at the worst possible time as well. Mac turned to see what was going on.

"Come on man! This isn't the time or place to take a breather!" he cried, pumping a fresh shell into his shotgun.

"I can't…breath!" gasped Joel, clutching at his chest. "It…hurts!" A second later, he was on his back, spasming and twitching as if he were having a fit. Mac's eyes widened in shock.

"Holy shit…WILL!" he screamed as loud as he could muster. Will looked up from where he was crouched to see Joel lying on the ground on his back, twitching uncontrollably.

"Oh shit…" he muttered, already making a mad dash towards his friend, despite the danger they were all in.

"The hell?" asked Nick when he saw the scene unfolding. He began to make a dash behind Will, covering the medic's advance as they slid into crouched positions next to the small gathering. The medic tried desperately to bring his companion round. "What the hell's the matter with him?!" Nick asked in a raised voice, turning to fire at an approaching Hunter.

"He's going into shock!" roared the medic, as he tried desperately to give the man a shot of morphine, looking for the purple liquid vials within his cluttered medical kit. "I don't do something, he'll probably die!"

"Just great…" muttered the Lieutenant, firing into another Hunter, this being his second to last rifle magazine. He hoped the monsters would run out of their numbers soon.

Ben watched intently as the Joel, the big man who had carved them a path through that ocean of zombies a short while back, dropped onto his back and started to spasm.

"WILL!" screamed McCormack from next to Joel, and a second later both the medic and Nick were running towards the other two mercenaries. Ben looked over at his companions, both of them pre-occupied by the Hunters that seemed to be swarming into the courtyard.

"Guys!" he cried, getting their attention. "Something's fucking wrong!" he continued, pointing towards the scene unfolding on the other side of the courtyard.

"Shit," said Devlan suddenly, running towards the group, an instinctive action, something that wasn't logically thought out. A second later, something terrible shrieked and descended from above.

"LOOK OUT!" cried Dean, raising his rifle, but he was too slow to do so. Another Hunter, a light green one, descended upon the sniper, clawed feet first, scratching at his tactical vest and knocking him onto the ground. His rifle went flying out of his hands and was sent clattering away. A split second later the frog-like monster was on top of the mercenary sharpshooter, his wrists wrapped around its arms in an attempt to stop it slashing his face off.

"Shit! Devlan!" cried Ben, trying to take a shot at the beast straddling the sniper, but getting distracted by yet another Hunter dropping down in front of him. He fired as quickly as it had landed, knocking it off of its feet, as quickly as another one leapt at him from the side, claws raised.

Robert Devlan was officially the most terrified as he had been in his life. A scaly frog-like monster known as a Hunter wrestled with him in an attempt to either slash his face off or take a bite out of his neck. Both ways would be fatal, so he struggled like mad to throw it off of him. His rifle lay out of reach and going for his handgun would be suicide. Instead, he had to try and tire the beast out until he found a window of opportunity to utilise and break free. But Hunters had incredible stamina: he knew that by how high they could jump and how fast they could move.

He found Hunters terrifying enough when they were coming at him from every direction, but this solitary specimen was directly in his face, snarling and snapping its jaws at him, drool flecking off its teeth onto his vest and face. The stench was overpowering, and he feared he might pass out from the combined aroma of blood and some unknown chemical substance. He heard shotgun fire from nearby, but he couldn't see who the source was, so fixated was he on the beast above him. He could make out the yellow colouration of its eyes and the slit pupils, like that of a feline. He could detect something behind those yellow eyes, a sort of malign intelligence, something that desired nothing more than to cut him into bloody pieces.

Suddenly, the creature managed to wrench one of its limbs free and raised it above its head to strike the finishing blow. It shrieked, almost in victory, it seemed. Then he remembered he still had his combat knife on him. As soon as he realised, his hand moved down to the knife sheath at his right hip. He drew the short blade in a lightning-quick motion. The knife sliced across the monster's exposed throat, drawing a stream of thick blood that splashed onto his face and chest. The creature tried to shriek again, but with its windpipe sliced open, it could only make a bloody gurgling sound instead.

Grunting, Devlan brought one of his legs up and kicked out into its torso, throwing it off of him. He gasped for breath as he forced himself into a standing position, brushing some Hunter blood off of his chest and face. The Hunter still lay on its back, bleeding to death.

"Fucker!" he spat, venomously. He drew his Eagle handgun and unloaded the full clip into the monster's still form, obliterating its face and tearing into its upper body further. It was a waste of ammo, but he was pretty freaked out right now and it was his way of dealing with matters.

He felt something grab his shoulder and he whipped around, shoving the gun's barrel into the face of Dean Travers.

"Easy!" he cried, raising his hands up in front of his face. "You nearly blew my head off!"

"Don't sneak up on me like that then!" growled the sniper, realising that his gun was empty anyways, so there was no danger of a friendly fire incident. He lowered the empty gun and calmed himself. "Is that the last of them?"

"Think so," replied Dean, looking around.

All around them, fresh blood and corpses had been added into the mix, light green scales mixing with dark green and red. Ben walked up to a badly wounded Hunter lying on its back and shrieking weakly, before he gave it a blast to the face to finish it off, kicking it in the ribs to make sure. The number of bodies almost seemed unreal: Devlan could count at least 15 from where he was stood, although he was sure there would be more outside of his view-point he was yet to notice. Shell casings littered the ground and the smell of fresh gunpowder lingered in the air, adding to the overpowering stench of blood and decay. The massacre scene from before was now even more chaotic than it was before, but at least they had gained revenge for all those deaths.

Devlan had fought Hunters before, but never this many at once. Where had they all come from? Unless Umbrella had unleashed them into the city on purpose to cover up their mistakes…or they had escaped from storage somewhere.

He turned back towards the centre of the area, remembering that Joel was having a fit all of a sudden and was on his way to his friend's side when that Hunter dropped down and nearly tore his face off. He saw that the gunner was still lying on his back as Will worked over him, and everyone else hovered around, waiting to see if he was going to pull through. Joel had long since stopped twitching now, but he lay on his back, swimming in an out of consciousness.

"Come on Joel, we need you here!" said Mac in a half-shout as Devlan approached from behind. "We need you to help us kill those things for us! Where would be without good old Setzer, eh?"

"Fuck it…" whispered Joel from on the ground, his eyes lolling about in a random fashion. "I'm just a big idiot…getting myself caught out like that…"

"No you're not!" shouted Nick from next to him. "You put yourself in harm's way to save one of your own, without any thought for the consequences. You're a hero Joel, as far as I'm concerned.

"Yeah!" chipped in Mac now, his mood raising. "If it weren't for you, we'd never get through those zombie crowds back there." The gunner seemed to flash a smile about then, but it was hard to tell through his pained expression. He then offered a weak nod.

"Well it looks like this is it either way," he muttered, closing his eyes. "Sorry to leave you guys, but you can make it, I know…you can…"

"Joel!" shouted Daniels, grabbing the man by his shoulders and giving him a few shakes to try and bring him around. "Don't do this to me! Not now! Fight! Fight for me!!"

"Sorry guys…" replied Joel. "All my fight's gone." With his last bit of strength, he reached an arm up toward the sky, as if trying to grasp something.

"Looks like I can finally see them…all my loved ones…again…" And with that, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he stopped breathing, his body slumping to the side. His arm fell limply to his side. A deathly silence fell over the group.

"Joel…?" asked the medic quietly, as he began to shake his friend's body. "Come on buddy, don't do this to me…" Tears were welling up in his eyes. "Wake up…please…"

He shook Joel's shoulders more vigorously. The rest of the group just stood by, their heads lowered in silent mourning.

"Don't you dare do this to me!" shouted Will, on the verge of breaking down.

Nick just reached down and checked for a pulse on the man's neck. "He's gone," he said, in a manner as cold as ice. Dean initially thought he was being uncaring, but then again Nick had probably seen this situation enough times to become totally accustomed to it. He did say how the U.B.C.S had been virtually wiped out on their initial landing in Raccoon City.

"How'd he die?" asked Devlan from beside the scene.

Will suddenly whirled on him.

"FUCK YOU, YOU UNCARING BASTARD!" screamed the former S.A.S soldier. The venom of his reaction caused the sniper to reel back in shock. Will was always the mildest member of the team, but now it looked as though he'd totally lost it.

As quickly as he recoiled, Mac suddenly stepped in and smacked Will with the back of his hand. The sudden sound of skin on skin made Dean flinch.

"Shouting won't solve a damned thing!" snarled the Scotsman, as Will cradled a hand to his cheek. "You've seen this enough times Will, and I know you're made of stronger stuff. Where's that famous grit we all looked up to back in the regiment, eh?"

Will looked up at his team-mate with tear-filled eyes, and he nodded slightly. He was made of stronger stuff than this, he knew that fine well, but he had already seen too many of his comrades die in this godforsaken necropolis, without him being able to do anything. And he wanted that to change, so desperately.

"He…he died of massive internal bleeding and shock," he eventually said, his mood considerably dampened. Dean was impressed, having seen the man go from an absolute emotional wreck to almost robotic in nature. But should he have been worried about that?

"Was that because of the virus?" Nick asked.

"Yes," came the reply. "Even with all the anti-viral medication, the virus still overwhelmed his system. It was just waiting for a chink in his immune system, and that scratch wound he took back at the burger joint, that gave it the perfect opportunity to enter his body and start working." A few startled expressions went up around the gathering. Maybe there was no way to avoid or alleviate the infection after all.

Devlan stopped down, his knife drawn, and cut off the dog tags around Joel's neck, tucking them into his back pocket. "He was a good man," he said, addressing the others. "A strong man, both in body and spirit. A fine soldier. Don't forget him anytime soon." Several nods of agreement went around.

The group relieved the dead man of his weapons and ammo, dividing it up amongst the ones who were still alive. It seemed like insulting the dead, but Joel wouldn't need them anymore. Nick took the shotgun, as his M4 was now bone dry, and the grenade launcher was given to Ben, who had previously mentioned that he was eager to try out some different fire power for a change.

"Let's go," said Nick simply, as he led the group away. Ben and Dean stayed stood next to Joel's body a bit longer, and gave a smart but short salute, in memory of the man they barely knew, but who had done his best to make sure that they lived this long. Ben turned and hurried after the group, leaving Dean alone. He seemed to be staring at Joel's corpse. He wondered if there was something he could have done to save him, but then corrected himself: he doubt he could have known was going to happen to him.

_Was his skin always that pale?_

He watched as the man's formerly tanned skin lost its colour, turning to an almost-white colouration before his eyes, but in a gradual manner. After a minute, every inch of Joel's exposed skin had turned the same colour, and the area around his bandaged-up wound was beginning to peel off of the bone. Like it was rotting away. Dean stiffened.

A deep moan suddenly permeated the silence, and Dean snapped his head around looking for the zombie. But he soon realised that the sound came from down at his feet.

Joel's eyes suddenly snapped open, revealing empty white irises.

"Oh God no…" breathed Dean, as the recently deceased mercenary slowly sat up and pulled himself to his feet, the move taking quite a lot of effort as well. After 30 seconds, Joel was on his feet again, and took a shambling step towards the cop who stood there, seemingly frozen to the spot. He raised his arms before him and took a step, his mouth opening to reveal his teeth. The formerly brilliant whites of the man's teeth were now blackened and rotten, and his breath stunk of week-old garbage.

Joel Setzer, the big, brawny man with the machine gun, the man who had carved them a path out of a sea of zombies, the genial man who always tried to look on the bright side: he was gone now, and all that remained was his empty shell, inhabited by an endless hunger.

_How the hell did he become one so fast?_

Joel's arms suddenly grabbed onto his shoulders. With a shout, he kicked out, shoving the former mercenary backwards. Joel grunted as he teetered on his unsteady feet, but he somehow regained his balance and was advancing again. Dean pulled out his Beretta and backed away, aiming at the spot between Joel's eyes. He curled his finger around the trigger.

_Sorry Joel…_

BANG!

Joel's head snapped backwards and he crashed to the cold ground. Seconds later, a crimson pool gathered below his head. Dean had nearly jumped out of his skin, mainly because he wasn't the one who had pulled the trigger in the first place. He shifted his gaze next to him to see Will stood there, his SIG Pro raised.

"I did him a favour," the medic said simply, holstering his gun, his face blank. "It'd be better for him to die rather than be one of those monsters."

Footsteps heralded the arrival of the rest of the group. They looked dumbfounded, but one look at Joel's corpse explained every question that had. Will holstered his SIG Pro and walked back towards the main group.

"Come on, let's get going." Dean just watched after him as he holstered his own sidearm, and then looked back towards Joel's dead body one more time.

"Damn…" he muttered, running after everyone else.

Travis and Cameron kept walking: the forest seemed to be going on forever. They kept to the path mostly, skipping off the beaten trail so they could cut across onto another path as the one they were on started to stray off into the wrong direction. More than once they came to a dead end, where the path just cumulated into a small forest clearing with no obvious route to take.

"I'm hungry," said Cameron suddenly as they trudged down another identical path, leaves and twigs crunching under their feet. Travis stopped in his tracks and turned about to give his friend a murderous glare.

"Just saying," muttered Cameron, meekly. Travis turned around and kept on walking, picking up his pace. After a few seconds, Cameron jogged to catch up to his friend.

Travis was frustrated, that much was certain. They'd been out here for nearly two hours now and as far as he was concerned, they had made no concrete progress so far. His legs were tired and stained with dew and mud from the forest floor.

And they'd found a dead body. Something dangerous was in these woods, and it was only a matter of timing and bad luck whether or not they bumped into whatever it was. Was it a rabid bear? Or maybe a pack of escaped dogs or wolves on the prowl? Well, whatever it was, he had bad images of himself and Cameron lying on the forest floor, torn to bloody shreds.

_Why did I even suggest coming here in the first place?_

He shivered inwardly, just as the path opened out into yet another clearing, this one much larger than the last few they had been through. It was at least several hundred feet wide, at least half a mile he reckoned. He was still gawping as Cameron bumped into his back, nearly knocking him over onto his face.

"What is it?" asked Cameron, but then he looked around the clearing and his face dropped. "Damn…"

The ground in the clearing was scorched a deep black, almost charcoaled in many places. The charred trunks of countless trees lined the ground as well, almost as if a massive fire or explosion had flattened everything in the immediate area. About 30 feet away from them, a high chain-link fence, topped with rolls of barbed wire, was erected in a large square shape in the rough centre of the clearing, surrounding even more scorched ground.

"What happened here?" asked Cameron, moving forward to stand next to the fence. "Looks like someone dropped a bomb on this part of the forest."

"Yeah," agreed Travis, standing beside him. "This just gets weirder and weirder…so much for a simple rescue mission."

"Hey, look there," said Cameron, pointing out towards the middle of the fenced-in area. Travis could see patterns in the scorched ground, rather like the marked foundations of a large building. Among it all he could see mounds of shattered concrete blocks and piles of burnt wooden beams. "There was some sort of building here beforehand."

"Yeah, so I see," murmured Travis, his gaze drawn to one of the signs hanging on the fence just above their heads. The top left corner of the sign was marked with a symbol, a large red and white octagonal emblem. It was a symbol he had become familiar with on his visits to Raccoon City, and while he was growing up in general.

"Umbrella," he muttered, reading over the test on the sign. It was simple and to the point.

_Area sealed by order of Umbrella Inc. Trespassers shall be severely prosecuted._

Who didn't know Umbrella? One of the world's most successful pharmaceutical companies for the last 40 years, and one of the leading figures in the advance of medical sciences. Hell, he had used several of their products to heal and treat the various bruises and cuts he took during his football games.

And Raccoon City was the company's base of operations in the States. Practically everything on this side of the world was controlled from the Umbrella HQ in the city.

"Severely prosecuted?" asked Cameron, reappearing next to Travis. "Why? It's just a load of scorched ground and buildings."

"Well maybe it was something very important to them," reasoned Travis. "Either that or there's some investigations going on."

"Well whatever, this looks like it happened months ago," Cameron pointed out, stubbing at some of the ground with his foot. Elsewhere within the restricted area, plants and grass were beginning to sprout through the blackened ground, further proof that a long time had passed since the initial event had occurred.

"Look, we're just wasting time by standing here and talking," announced Travis suddenly, shifting uneasily in his spot. "We need to keep going toward the city."

"Yeah, of course," replied Cameron, taking his attention away from the fence. "Look, there's a path over there," he then said, pointing over towards a break in the trees about 50 feet away from them.

"Looks good to me," smiled Travis. "Come on, let's get going."

The two friends headed off again, leaving the scorched area behind them. They continued on with little happening, passing through yet another identical forest path, complete with an overhanging canopy of trees to form a sort of tunnel effect. After another 5 minutes of walking, they came upon yet another clearing, this one much smaller than the last, but this one had another interesting sight within it.

There was the twisted and mangled wreck of a helicopter at the far end of the clearing, being gradually overwhelmed by creepers and various other forest plants.

"What the hell?" asked Cameron, as Travis just stared. After several seconds, Travis suddenly started running up towards the wreckage, climbing up to wrench open the side cargo door. Cameron made no attempt to try and stop his friend from running off by himself. Instead he just started walking after his friend at a casual pace.

Travis dropped his walking stick as he clambered up onto the side of the wreckage, seeing that the door was already pulled wide open. He pulled away a handful of vines from the side of the chopper, exposing a faded blue and gold design painted onto the side of it, something that seemed oddly familiar. He stuck his head into the vehicle's fuselage instead, looking around inside. More vines and creepers were starting to overwhelm the interior of the chopper, which was abandoned, and derelict, the metal surfaces becoming consumed with rust. Looked as though this wreck had been here a long time as well. Then he turned his attention towards the cockpit area, where something was slumped backwards over one of the seats.

It was a human, or rather what used to a human, its skin withered and wasting away, the bones visible through its pallid skin. It was a man in his early twenties, he could at least tell, and he was wearing a flight helmet, complete with a small microphone extending in front of his mouth, and bullet proof vest that looked as though it were military or police issue.

Travis just stared, into the corpses' mouth, forever locked into a wordless scream, the man's eyes scratched out a long time ago. Flies buzzed around the body, maggots writhing on the surface of the pallid flesh. The man's eyes had been scratched out by something long ago, the old claw marks still visible around his empty sockets.

Crying out in shock and disgust, a cry that rose in volume as Travis fell backwards, out of the chopper wreckage and onto the grass outside, landing hard on his back side He was scrambling up again, gasping for breath, just as Cameron came running up beside him.

"What? What is it?" Cameron asked, his face slashed with fear.

"T-there's a body inside," stuttered Travis, pointing up towards the opened cargo door. Cameron just followed his pointing finger and turned back to face his friend, his face ashen white. After the last experience, he didn't go to check to see whether his friend was telling the truth or not. He turned his attention to the emblem on the side of the chopper instead.

"Oh damn," he said, after a few seconds of examining it. "This is a police helicopter!"

"What?" asked Travis, dumbfounded.

"This is definitely the police badge of Raccoon Police Department," said Cameron, indicating the emblem on the side of the helicopter. "But what was it doing way out here?"

"God knows," replied Travis, eager to get going. "But I'm assuming that guy in the cockpit is a police officer, at any rate."

"Dead hikers, now a dead police officer?" asked Travis, sounding more freaked out. "Whatever next?"

"So, still want to keep going?" asked Cameron, smirking. He got a hard glare from Travis in response.

"Stuff you, smart arse," snapped Travis in response. "But maybe I'm starting to regret opening my big mouth now."

"Yeah, me too," agreed Cameron. Travis whirled on him, to be met with Cameron's cheeky grin.

"Oh yeah?" asked Travis, clearly annoyed. "Maybe I ought to slap you upside the head for that remark!"

Cameron had a sharp retort ready to fly when Travis all of a sudden changed the subject. "Where did this come from, anyways?" He was referring to the helicopter wreckage.

Cameron looked around, and saw a trail of broken trees in the space beyond the wreckage: branches snapped and trunks split apart by the force of something incredibly heavy coming down.

"By the looks of it, it crashed," he reasoned.

Travis just nodded. "And that body inside…looked like he was the pilot. But he was wasting away, like he'd been dead for a while."

"Around the same time that ground back there was scorched?" asked Cameron. Travis just nodded in response.

"This is just getting bizarre," observed Travis after a brief silence, stooping to pick up his walking stick. "We should keep going."

"You serious?" asked Cameron, his face showing unease. "I'm getting real creeped out Travis, come on, we should go back. I don't want to be stuck out here when dark comes."

"What, you scared of the dark?" asked Travis, mockingly.

"No, just what lurks inside it," replied Cameron, quietly.

At that moment, there was a rustling sound from across the clearing. Both men turned towards a cluster of shrubs at the far end of the area, about 30 feet away from them. They rustled again, louder this time, and there was the sound of a twig snapping as well.

"What was that?" asked Cameron, anxiously.

"Shhh!" hissed Travis, holding his hand up. Another twig snapped loudly, and Cameron looked about ready to bolt. Travis stood where he was though, and raised his stick up, trying to look as threatening as he could.

"Travis…we should go!" urged Cameron, taking a fearful step backwards.

"Not after coming this far!" seethed Travis.

The shrubs rustled yet again, and this sound was soon followed by a low, drawn-out growl. Both men froze.

"That didn't sound good," mused Travis.

Something small and black tore out of the shrubs, coming straight for them. Seeing the speed at which it moved, Travis suddenly changed his mind about standing his ground.

"RUN!"

Both men turned on their hells and ran as fast as they could, back the way they had come, away from the chopper wreckage, and with something four legged and very fast (and probably something with sharp teeth) came bounding after them. Cameron could hear panting from behind them, like a sound a dog or a wolf would make. _Great_, he thought. _I'm going to be savaged to death by a wild dog._

They sprinted down a lone forest path, completely bypassing the scorched earth clearing they had investigated previously. They just cared about getting away from the rabid thing chasing after them. Travis could hear it baying after them, its four legs clawing at the forest ground. He could hear the panting too, practically right on top of them. They couldn't outrun this creature, even someone as fit as him. It seemed to be unnaturally speedy, he decided.

Hoping that he wouldn't mess up, he stopped in his tracks, whirling about and swinging his stick around in both hands. He cried out in anger and exertion as he swung.

The piece of wood made contact with the head of the thing that was lunging up at him, teeth bared. The stick cracked it in the side of its skull, throwing up blood as the creature was sent flying sideways, whining as it did so. It hit the dirt and rolled over a few times, blood streaming from the wound on its head. From what he could tell, it was a small animal, about the size of a dog, with black and brown short haired fur.

Cameron turned in time to see his friend striking the creature that came lunging at him, sending it rolling over into the grass and drawing blood into the bargain.

"Travis!" he cried, in fear more than concern. Travis only gave his friend a quick glance before he raised his stick and brought it down again; electing another whimper from the creature he was attacking. Cameron started to run up as Travis bought the stick down twice more, the second blow swung with such force that the stick snapped in half, but the pathetic whimpering had ceased now.

_Oh great, my friend just beat a dog to death, _thought Cameron as he came up beside his friend, who was still holding the broken half of his stick, and panting for breath, sweat dripping off of his brow. He was staring down at the thing he'd just beaten to death, lying in the shade of an overhanging tree.

"You allright?" asked Cameron.

"I'll…manage," Travis breathed, barely able to speak in between taking deep breaths. "But…just look…at this…" Curiously, Cameron followed his friend's suggestion, moving around to stand over the creature that had been chasing them beforehand. Then the god awful stench came to his nostrils and he put his hand over his mouth.

It was a dog, a Doberman to be exact, but it wasn't like any other dog he'd seen. Normal dogs didn't usually have half of their faces missing, or huge patches or their skin and fur ripped away to expose the underlying muscle and bone. He could see the ribs poking out the side of its body. Dried blood covered nearly every inch of its body as well, including the fresh spillage that was still leaking out of the ugly wounds on its face. No creature should have still been alive after suffering that kind of damage, he thought. It looked like someone had taken a machete to this poor dog, and then brought it back to life somehow. But that was ridiculous: you couldn't bring the dead back to life.

"That's one messed up pooch," said Travis eventually, in a dry fashion. Cameron was inclined to agree with him, if he weren't scare witless at the moment.

"No way that thing should still be running around, not in that state," he gasped instead, covering his mouth up quickly to avoid having to endure the stench. "It looks like someone filleted it when it was alive! And it smells like it's been rotting away for a while."

Travis got a whiff of the smell Cameron was referring to and gagged a few times, trying not to throw up over his shoes. "Yeah, you got that right! And even if it looks a state, it could still run pretty fast!"

"So what then?" asked Cameron. "Raccoon City's been attacked by devil dogs? Maybe one of these killed that hiker back there."

"Or the guy in the helicopter," Travis added, following his friend's train of thought.

"We should head back Travis, seriously!" implored Cameron suddenly, walking back down the path. "Dogs are pack animals by instinct, so I don't fancy hanging around here for too long for this one's friends to turn up!"

Travis stiffened up at that comment. "Dude, don't tempt fate…"

Somewhere nearby, barking suddenly pierced the air. They both froze in place. The barking sounded again, interspersed with growls, and the sound of paws hitting the ground.

"Too late," whined Travis.

About halfway down the path, three more forms burst out of the tree line and came sprinting towards them. Even from where he was stood, Travis could make out the exposed skull on the first creature in the pack. All three of them had exposed patches of muscle that gleamed in the light.

"Oh fuck no!" cried Cameron, turning and sprinting away as fast he could, with Travis following close behind him. The rotting hounds came baying after them, trailing bloody drool behind them.

"Fuck off!" screamed Travis over his shoulder, more as a way to relive his stress rather than an attempt to get rid of the things chasing them.

Cameron's viewpoint closed down to the area just ahead of him, as he dodged around trees, leapt over fallen logs and trunks, desperate to stay ahead of his pursuers. But he was hardly the fittest man in the world, and he couldn't be able to keep up this speed for much longer, unless their pursuers gave up the chase, but a dread feeling in his gut told him otherwise. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing that the closest creature was only 15 feet away from him now, ready to pounce and strike. Travis was beginning to pull out in front of him now, leaving him behind without realising, in his haste to escape.

His lapse of concentration on the path in front of him would turn out to be a bad idea though: his foot caught in the loop of a tree root that was obstructing from the soil, and he fell, face-first into the soil and leaf litter on the ground. His face smacked down into the dirt and his glasses tumbled away a short distance, but he still had enough presence of mind to look back over his shoulder, at the blurred image of the twisted hound almost on top of him, drool flecking from its teeth.

He grabbed out, getting a hold of his glasses and hastily putting them back on, in time to see a crystal-clear vision of a twisted hound coming down at him.

"Travis!" he cried, as loud as he could manage.

Getting too far ahead of his friend, Travis stopped and turned at the sound of his friend's panic-stricken voice. When he saw Cameron lying on the forest ground, with a rotting dog rapidly closing in on him, his heart jumped into his throat out of fear. He didn't have anything to fight the creatures off, but he couldn't exactly leave his friend to die either.

Then he had a flash of memory, and his hand went to the back of his jeans, and his fingers gripped the handle of the bloody knife he had picked up back at the camp site: the knife that obviously belonged to someone else, and that he felt slightly guilty about bringing it with him. But it might at least prove useful now, if he got close enough. But the risk was worth it, as far as he was concerned.

"Hold on Cam!" he shouted back, sprinting towards his fallen friend, the knife clenched tightly in his right fist. Cameron looked up and saw Travis dashing to his aid, a small knife clutched in his hand. _Where the hell did he get that from_?, he wondered.

"Travis! No!" he shouted back, before tilting his head and seeing the blurred dog almost on top of him. It was close enough for him to make out its eyes, murky white orbs with no hint of any emotion behind them. The creature opened its jaws and lunged towards him.

All of a sudden, Travis appeared over the scene and tackled into the creature in a textbook football tackle manoeuvre, wrapping his arms around its neck and slamming it into the ground, pinning it under his body weight. The dog whined as Travis slammed it into the dirt. Cameron watched in shock, as his friend wrestled the dog over onto its side, drawing back from its snarling maw, before he raised the knife he was holding and plunged it into the creature's neck. He drew the short blade out, sending a fountain of blood squirting up, and rammed it down into the same spot again, drawing another spurt of red fluid that splashed across his face, set into an angry grimace. He held the blade in both hands as he raised it up a third time and stabbed it down into the dog's neck as hard as he could. The beast whimpered for the last time, before flopping down dead, the blade still stuck into its neck and Travis still knelt over the fresh corpse, gasping for breath.

Cameron just stared at his friend's bloody face as he looked up, before looking back down the path, where the two remaining creatures were still approaching, and with no way of either man having a way to defend themselves, or any time for them to flee to safety. All they could do was to stay in one place, and wait for the inevitable to happen. Cameron closed his eyes and waited to hear his friend's dying scream. Travis just stared blankly into the white eyes of the demonic dogs bearing down on him.

RATATATATAT!

Something much louder than either of them could have imagined rang out through the woods, closely followed by the pathetic calls of the poor creatures closing in on them. The sound was so sudden that both men dived down to the forest floor, covering their heads with their arms, trying to protect themselves from whatever it was that had shattered what little calm remained in the forest.

And it was over as quickly as it had started. The echo of the sudden noise continued to roll back and forth through the trees, and Cameron finally got enough thought back to move his arms away and look around him. Reaching out blindly, he recovered his glasses and put them back onto his face, looking back down the path where they had just come from.

The dogs that had been chasing after them were now lying sprawled on the ground, their bodies practically shredded into bloody strips but whatever it was that had just come screaming through the forest. Travis looked up finally, blood still dripping down his shocked face. He looked back at the ruptured corpses of the demon dogs.

"Damn!" he admired. "Looks like they got their just deserts!"

Cameron looked back down the opposite way and froze. "Uh, Travis…"

Travis followed his friend's voice and found himself freezing at the same sight. Standing about 15 feet away were at least 5 army soldiers, three of them in crouched firing positions and the other two standing behind them, all of them clutching smoking assault rifles and standing deathly still. He didn't expect anyone to follow them into the forest…unless someone was concerned for their safety.

Travis and Cameron got to their feet slowly and carefully, watching their unexpected saviours carefully. The army soldiers started to lower their weapons gradually, when they realised the danger had gone.

Travis smiled a little as he walked forward. "Oh, are we so glad to see-"

The soldiers suddenly re-aimed their weapons at the two humans and readied themselves to fire. Cameron and Travis stopped in their tracks with a start, raising their hands in shock.

"Hey wait! We're-"

"Shut the fuck up!" barked one of the soldiers standing at the back of the group, the nerves in his voice showing. "Don't move a damned muscle! You both could have been bitten for all I know!"

_Bitten? _Thought Travis. _Why's that so bad?_

"But we're unarmed!" urged Cameron, seemingly frozen in place. "Just listen-"

"Did I say you could move?!" snarled the same soldier as before.

"Put your weapons down!" shouted a familiar voice from behind them. The soldiers looked around behind them, half of them lowering their guns finally, but a few of them kept aiming, until someone pushed through their ranks and knocked their guns aside. After a few seconds all weapons were aimed away from Travis and Cameron.

"I thought you two were smarter than this," said another man in combat fatigues and body armour as he stood before the other soldiers.

"Corporal Greene?" asked Travis, shocked. The army corporal with the unhealthy pale skin, who they had talked to before, just nodded in answer.

"Busted…" sighed Cameron under his breath.

"Would you two gentlemen mind coming with us please?"

"Nearly there," said Nick from the front of the group, holding the PDA in front of him. "Just a few more blocks," he then said, tucking the device away.

"Hallelujah," said Devlan from his position in the middle of the line. Now reduced to 6 members, they had taken to travelling in a long formation of two-by-two, staying close to one another as they marched down the narrow alleyways. Above them, lines of washing were strung up between parallel windows, and a few black crows circled aimlessly. Dean hoped that those were the only crows they had to worry about.

They had encountered no more Hunters since leaving the blood-splattered quarters of that courtyard, but since they were boxed in now, if they bumped into anymore it would likely end in tears and blood-shed.

They were strangely quiet, even Ben, who had so far started little conversation between him and Dean in an effort to break up the monotony of the journey. It was because of Joel's death, it was obvious. They thought he'd be all right, but the virus still got the better of him in the end, and the man who had once fought to save all their lives was now trying to take life away. Will was the most deathly quiet, staring ahead of him as he swung his rifle this way and that to try and find anything lurking in the shadows. His face was as though it were made of granite.

Yet another dry moan made them all freeze and aim their weapons about them. They were now situated in a narrow part of the alleyway, with boarded-up windows and doors on either side of them, as a measure to try and stop zombies from getting in. The moan sounded again, nearby, but out of their immediate line of sight.

"Come on," whispered Dean to himself, clutching his M4. "Where are you?" After going through the nightmare of facing over a dozen frog-like monsters armed with razor-sharp claws on their hand and feet, he fancied killing some slow, dumb-witted zombies as a change of pace. The moaning sounded again, very near to him, and he aimed in its direction. He realised he was now aiming towards one of the boarded-up windows near to them.

"Shit."

Then the zombies chose their moment to strike.

Several of the windows around them exploded into a shower of splinters and wood chips, and countless rotting arms were suddenly reaching out, trying to grab onto them. Dean cried out in surprise, firing his M4 into the mass, and being rewarded as more blood spraying onto him and the men around him. Nick backed away as a face with most of its skin missing appeared in front of him, and he drove his bayonet through the man's left eye, only wrenching it free after some effort was applied. Mac was nearly tackled to the ground as a woman in a ripped blouse grabbed onto him and tried to take a bite, but he easily threw her to the floor, stamping down on her head and crushing it like a rotten watermelon. He grimaced as he shook the brain matter free of his boot.

Another crash rang out, and the door 15 feet behind Ben and Dean was blown off of its hinges, and more figures came shambling out, their arms raised in front of them, blank faces bearing down at them. The chorus of moaning was almost overwhelming.

"Jesus!" shouted Ben, bringing up the grenade launcher that he'd taken from Joel and fired a flame round at the approaching throng. Several zombies burned up and collapsed to the floor, and Dean fired into the ones that had escaped the inferno, dropping a couple more.

"A little help would be nice!" shouted Dean as he fired into a zombified paramedic's torso.

"We got our own worries!" cried Nick, as he indicated another gaggle of zombies approaching from ahead of them, pouring from another broken open door. They were caught in a pincer movement. Zombies weren't smart enough to tie their own shoe laces or open doors normally, but Dean had to admit this was a pretty clever move. Wait for your prey to come knocking then jump out and attack from every angle.

"Hope we got enough bullets," muttered Dean as he resumed firing.

BOOM!

James McCormack fired his shotgun into the group piling up the alleyway towards him and the others. He couldn't miss really and several of them were sent flying backwards to give them some much-needed breathing room. He cocked and fired again and again, spraying gore and body parts up the walls. He'd already used up the rest of his enhanced shells, and was down to using his regular shells now, but it was better than nothing he supposed. In this narrow space, the gunfire was amplified to incredible levels, and he feared that he would go deaf by the end of the night. A moan to his left snapped his attention to the open windows, were more zombies tried in vain to pull themselves through. He aimed and fired, blowing them back into the darkness of the building interior.

"Mac!" cried a voice, and he whipped his head around to see Devlan wrestling with a male zombie trying to drag him back through the window. The Scotsman quickly ran up and struck it as hard as he could in the side of the head with his shotgun, whipping its head away and making it relinquish its grip on the sniper.

"Thanks", replied the sniper gruffly, jamming his Eagle 6.0 into the zombie's mouth and pulling the trigger.

Will Daniels seemed to have a look of glee about him as he gunned down the zombies bearing down on him from every direction imaginable. He laughed, in an almost giddy manner, as heads erupted and blood saturated the front of his tactical vest. Joel had died because of these freaks. No, not just Joel, practically everyone else from Delta platoon, and Alpha platoon, every damned platoon in the U.B.C.S, and he couldn't do anything about it, even if he was a medic, meant to save lives. So instead he was going to kill as many of these bastards as he could, even if it killed him into the bargain. He unloaded his current magazine, and pulled out his handgun, letting the rifle hand loosely around his neck as he blazed away. They were too close to even consider reloading in the heat of battle. Every shot found its mark, and 15 zombies crumpled to the ground, dead.

Another zombie, a huge whale of a man wearing a buttoned-up dress shirt, charged at him, sweeping its arm downwards as the mercenary reloaded. Will was able to put a round between its eyes, but momentum carried the creature's nails down on his left arm, easily tearing through the sleeve fabric and into his skin, leaving angry red scars down his bicep. He didn't cry out in pain, more in anger than anything.

"Will!" shouted Nick, who had seen the attack and went to try and help his comrade.

"Sod off I'm fine!" cried the medic, who reloaded his M4A1 with its last available magazine, and resumed firing. Nick just swore loudly and turned back around to try and clear the alleyway ahead of them. The number of zombies pouring in from the open doors was unbelievable. Half of Raccoon City must've been waiting for them.

Ben fired his last flame round and switched to using acid rounds, the smell of burnt flesh threatening to overwhelm his senses. He began to cough and gag for breath, and Dean stood in front of him, shielding him from the clutches of the zombie civilians bearing down. He kept firing his M4 on full auto, tearing through their brittle flesh, but they only fell when they were close to being cut in half. He wished for a chance to use the M203, but in these close quarters, using any kind of high explosives would probably kill the whole group. And that would be embarrassing to say the least.

A black-skinned zombie in a plaid shirt lunged at him, but he kicked the creature in the chest, knocking it down. As it tried to get up, he planted his foot in the middle of its chest and fired a burst into its vacant face.

"You OK?" he shouted back at Ben.

"Yeah…" gasped his partner as he coughed up a load of mucus mixed with dark soot. "I'm good," he continued, taking up his position and firing off another acid round.

Nick and Devlan fired into the throng rapidly, dropping zombies left, right and centre, but more and more of them kept on coming and coming, stumbling over the piled corpses of the ones that had gone before them. Unloading his S.P.A.S 12, Nick slung it over his shoulder and pulled out his handguns instead, for the first time since leaving the law office. Taking aim, he reeled off rounds like a Wild West gunslinger, dropping even more zombies around him, until he had to pause to reload. He looked back over at Daniels, who continued to fire into the shadows of the buildings at unseen foes. His gaze settled on the still-fresh wounds on the man's left arm, the blood starting to drip onto the cold concrete ground.

_He's infected. Just like Joel was. Will I be the one to put him out of his misery this time? _

"We're clear!" shouted Devlan from next to him, making Nick snap out of his thoughts. Looking ahead of him, he saw that the path ahead of them had finally been cleared of zombie scum. He offered thanks to whatever God was watching over him as he shouted back at the others.

"Let's go! Now!"

Dean grabbed his partner by the shoulder and wrenched him away from the approaching throng of undead, narrowly missing a blonde female that slashed at them with its nails. Ben replied in kind by firing off one more acid round into her torso as he was dragged backwards, scolding her and several others around her to death. They ran past Will and Mac, both of them currently pre-occupied with gunning down even more rotting bastards pouring from the open windows. When they felt hands patting them on the back, they looked about then peeled away from the carnage. Mac still found enough time and space to fire his current shell into the face of a young man with black hair and serious burns on his face.

They were all tearing down the passages soon after, taking care not to nip each other's heels and knock themselves down. Devlan suddenly tripped over a discarded trashcan and fell flat onto his face, and soon Dean, Ben and Mac all followed after him, all of them landing in a crumpled heap. They were quickly on their feet again though, rubbing at fresh bruises, following Nick to another intersection in the alleyway. They all slowed to a halt behind the Lieutenant, as Will tossed his empty M4A1 aside.

"What's the hold up?" asked Ben anxiously, looking back the way they had come. He could still hear the dragging footsteps following after them.

"Great…" muttered Nick. More moaning snapped everyone's attention to where Nick was watching.

Even more zombies were bearing down on them from two different directions, literally filling the alleyways from side to side, impossible to get past them.

"God, seems like every time we take a fucking turn these things are here!" snarled Ben, aiming his grenade launcher already.

"Forget it, we should just keep going!" urged Devlan, looking around for a path to take to get out of there. He tightened the grip around his rifle.

Dean wiped some sweat away from his brow, noticing that Will looked pained as he appeared to be in deep thought, holding a hand to the bloody wound on his arm. Suddenly, he made a statement that would decide all of their fates.

"Go on guys. Get out of here, I'll hold them off."

Nick and Devlan glared towards him. "Don't you even think about it! I've already lost too many good men in this damned place, don't add to that list!" shouted Nick, trying to pull Will back towards the relative safety of the group.

"No!" shouted the medic, throwing off his superior's hand. "You know fine well I'm sodding infected, it's only a matter of time before I end up like Joel!" He showed them his wounded arm for proof. It was bleeding a decent amount, and it wasn't just blood: green pus seeped from the wound as well.

There was a long silence as they let the Brit's words sink in. If he stayed with them, he'd turn sooner or later and they'd have to put him down like a dog. After what happened with Joel, would any of them be able to do that to one of their comrades, again? There was another tense silence.

"Look, just go!" he shouted, drawing his handgun and pulling the slide back. "I'll make sure I die a human, don't worry." There was another silence as Nick looked back and forth between the medic and the approaching zombies, before he nodded and snapped a quick salute.

"Good luck then, William Daniels. I'll see you in the next life." He then turned on his heel and ran on around a corner and out of sight.

Devlan suddenly reached towards his friend's neck and tore off the dog tags he was still wearing. "Good luck comrade," he said. "Give them hell." Will smiled a little at the sniper's comment. Then he had turned and was gone.

Mac approached Will and removed something from his top pocket, holding it up for him to see. It was a silver badge, consisting of a silver dagger flanked by a pair of wings.

"The regiment badge," murmured Will. "You kept it after all this time?"

"Of course," smiled the Scot, pressing it into Will's free hand and closing it up around the badge. "Think I'd ever forget the good old days with my main man William Daniels?" Will smiled back at him.

"It was good to know you, Mac," he said.

"Who dares wins," replied the Scot, reciting the S.A.S's motto. "Kill some for me, would you?" And with that, he turned and followed after the others.

Ben and Dean were the last to go, the former saying nothing as he ran after the others, except giving Will a little nod, but Dean stopped to give the man a quick salute of his own.

"It was nice knowing you Daniels," he said with a trace of a smile on his lips. "Good luck." And with that, the medic was left alone in the alleyway, with dozens of zombies bearing down on him.

He turned to face down a male zombie dressed in a shirt and tie, his ribs poking through the left side of his body and blood caked around his face. The medic pulled out his combat knife now, clutching it in his left fist, the blade turned down to the ground. Back in the regiment, he and Mac had learned a close quarters combat technique that used both a handgun and a combat knife to tackle multiple opponents at once, and hopefully it wouldn't fail him here. But he only had 5 handgun magazines and a few hand grenades on him, hardly enough to kill every single zombie there. But he'd kill as many as he could.

"Fine," he spat, approaching the well-dressed zombie. "Who's first?" A second later, he shoved the handgun into the creature's left eye and fired, spraying blood onto the ones bringing up the rear. He jumped forward at the pair of zombies behind his first kill, driving his knife through the throat of a teenage girl and firing his handgun into the forehead of the bald man next to her. Blood splashed onto his face.

He went into a frenzy. The pistol barked in his hand and the knife slashed into the faces of the zombies who appeared in front of him. Soon the blade was covered in fresh gore, becoming sticky and intoxicating as the smell of iron reached into his nostrils. He didn't balk though, just continued slashing and blasting through the undead civilians around him, their nails raking his clothes, some of them cutting through into his skin, but he didn't register the pain for long, so high was he on adrenaline. He screamed in rage as he killed, the zombies seemingly unable to touch him at all. Corpses piled around him, as he moved like a whirlwind

He backed away from a throng of zombies, slamming a fresh clip into his handgun, and looking over his shoulder to see even more of them pouring into the alley, effectively cutting him off from both sides. He couldn't go back now, even if he wanted to. With a curse, he ripped one of the grenades off of his vest and tossed it towards the new arrivals, hearing the resounding boom of it going off and feeling the heat and shockwave washing over him and making him stumble. He started to get to his feet when a set of teeth suddenly dug into his left bicep.

He cried out, firing 3 shots into the ugly face of a man with his lips missing to expose his yellowed teeth. The zombie fell back as Will aimed towards more approaching undead civilians beyond and unloaded the rest of his current clip towards them. He glanced down at his bicep, now scarred with jagged teeth marks as well as the nail scratches from earlier. If he wasn't infected before, he certainly was now. But he made a promise to his comrades, and would see it through to the end. Ignoring the pain in his arm, he quickly reloaded his handgun and opened fire again.

Another moan sounded right next to his right ear and he whirled around, cracking another zombie on the cheek with his pistol butt and firing at the ones behind it. Quickly, he swept his knife around him, sending a couple more staggering backwards from him and firing again until his sidearm clicked on empty yet again. He reloaded as quickly as he could, but he was too slow to prevent yet another zombie, a blonde female missing her left eye, from lunging at him and taking a bite out of his left shoulder.

Screaming in pain and rage, he punched her backwards, the flesh tearing away from his shoulder joint as she was forced off. The zombie seemed content with the mouthful of flesh in its teeth, but Will's knife found its way into her face a second later. Blood gushed from the huge rent in his shoulder, so much that it shocked even him.

That's not good, he thought, as he could feel the strength gradually leaving his arm. He fired his last clip into the monsters on either side of him, dropping several more with lethal head shots. The SIG Pro clicked on empty, but he continued to pull the trigger a few times, only being rewarded with a dry click each time. With what little strength remained, he tossed the useless gun into the face of another approaching cadaver, causing little damage. Realising that he still had his combat knife on him, he tossed it as hard as he could towards a zombie in a ragged white vest that was fast closing in on him. The blade planted right between its eyes, making it collapse to the ground.

Finally, his adrenaline rush ended, and he slumped to the ground painfully, blood still gushing from his fresh wounds like a waterfall. He knew he didn't have long left, he'd spent enough time around dying and wounded men to tell when they were about to give up the ghost. And now he was dying, after only 25 years of being in this world. He was stupid to join the S.A.S, he kept telling himself. He shouldn't have been used in such a manner, just to benefit someone else's needs. He'd seen enough in only two years to put him off of fighting forever, but here he was, fighting for someone else, yet again. He should have been back home, with his family. None of them would know how or where he had died. But he was somehow content to die like this, killing Umbrella's monstrous creations.

He readied the grenades on his person, palming one in his left hand, putting his thumb through the ring, ready to pull out. Yet another zombie, this one a skinny man dressed in a tattered and torn business suit, complete with a blue shirt and black tie, reached down towards him, his yellowed teeth bared, ready to feed. He looked into the former human's empty white irises and realised in that very moment, he would never become one of those, with what strength he had left.

With a roar of exertion, Will jammed the grenade into the zombie's open maw, causing the creature to make a confused grunt and take a step backwards, as Will tore the pin out as well. He flashed his middle finger at the surrounding zombies as they closed in around him.

"Up yours!" he cried, before pulling the pins on his other grenades.

A couple of seconds later, dozens of zombies, a large section of the ally, and William Daniels were swallowed in the combined explosion of several M67 hand grenades going off.

**A/N: …and so we bid farewell to another two brave U.B.C.S members, but their loss will not be in vain, I hope…**

**Also, I had real fun writing the parts where Travis and Cameron were in the Arklay Forest, because they reminded me of the introduction for the original game. In fact, the part where Cameron finds the severed foot in the discarded hiking boot was inspired by that part in the intro for the original Resident Evil where Joseph finds the severed hand still holding a handgun…but of course here our heroes don't get immediately killed by zombie dogs afterwards. **

**Also, I thought I'd point out that the large scorched ground Cameron and Travis come across is where the Spencer Estate used to be, until someone set the self-destruct sequence off. **

**But anyways, R+R as usual please. **


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Guntentag, mien loyal readers. This update has come sooner than expected due to certain things happening in my life, which I'll discuss at the end of the chapter. **

**And without further ado…**

Chapter 20: Hope

**September 28****th****, 1402 hours**

An abandoned warehouse in Raccoon City, its floors scattered with discarded cans of food and other food stuffs, left in that way when the workers who originally worked here days before fled for their lives in fear from the unnatural creatures that now stalk the streets.

The door leading out into the network of alleyways behind the building was suddenly slammed off of its hinges, and 5 figures ran in, all of them brandishing weapons and covered from head to toe in blood that isn't their's. 3 of them are dressed in green and tan battle fatigues, while the other 2 are dressed as civilians in jeans and plain shirts. The last man through, a brown-haired man with green eyes, slams the door shut and shouts back to his companions, "Help me get this door blocked! Now!"

Within seconds, all of them are working together to stack wooden crates packed full of canned foods and other perishable goods in front of the door, until a stack of crates at least 6 high was in front of it, ensuring that no one would be able to break through. With their entry point now blocked off, the group finally allowed themselves to drop to the floor, completely exhausted from their recent battles. They all panted for breath, some of them coughing due to the recent exertion they had just been put through.

Suddenly, a series of small explosions are let off from nearby, making them all look up from where they had come from in surprise. The sound fades away, and they looked solemnly at the floor. At least one of them started to shed bitter tears.

Travis and Cameron were pretty much frog-marched back to their truck by the armed escort of soldiers, sandwiched between the multiple bodies of armed men.

They passed by the way they had originally gone, but in a more direct fashion, which showed that they were close to being lost in the first place. They still passed by that abandoned campsite though, where another two soldiers were busy fishing the desiccated body of the female hiker out of the lake. One of them looked pretty freaked out when he saw what was left of her facial region.

The soldiers with them looked pretty freaked out as well. Most of them were nervously glancing around themselves, and jumping at every little sound they heard, their rifles ready to blow away anything that dared to show its ugly face. Maybe that encounter with the twisted Dobermans from before had freaked them all out. Maybe this wasn't their only encounter with those things. Only Corporal Greene seemed undeterred by what had happened in the dark woods.

After about 30 minutes, they were back at the old picnic area. Their truck was still there, but now an army flatbed truck was parked behind it, and a few more soldiers patrolled the area, peering into the thick trees to try and see anything they could. Others were in the process of setting up a barricade at the trail entrance The armed escort advanced into the middle of the clearing and stopped dead, causing Travis and Cameron to nearly walk into the men in front of them.

The two soldiers at the front parted, as another familiar figure, his hands clasped behind his back, appeared from around the back of the army truck and walked towards them.

"Lieutenant Fletcher?!" asked Cameron, genuinely surprised.

"Now we're for the chop…" muttered Travis darkly, avoiding eye contact with the officer as he stood before the two friends, a grim look on his face.

"I thought you two would be smarter than to try something stupid like this," said the Lieutenant, his face not changing at all. "Thanks for bringing them back safely, Corporal." Corporal Greene nodded in response as he moved around to stand next to his superior officer.

"And by rights, we should have you both arrested…" continued Fletcher.

Cameron cursed under his breath and Travis stiffened, waiting to be taken away in chains. But then Fletcher's face softened and he managed a slight smile.

"…but since I'm in a generous mood today, and considering the circumstances, I'll let you both off with a caution this time."

Cameron exhaled in relief, and Travis finally looked up.

"Oh how kind of you, Lieutenant," he said in a sarcastic manner. Fletcher suddenly turned on him, his face turning back to a more harsh expression.

"Considering that I left my assigned post to come here and make sure that neither of you got yourselves killed, I think you should be a little more grateful!" he snapped suddenly, turning away and walking away a few steps to let his anger subside. Cameron and Travis shut up instantly, as they feared if they said anything else it could backfire on them.

Fletcher took a couple of deep breaths before he turned back to face them. "Look, I can guess you're worried about your friends, anybody would," he reasoned. "But what if you do something stupid and get yourselves killed? Then what?"

"Yeah, I guess you'd say that," snapped Travis suddenly. "But I for one am sick of being fed this spiel about their being a toxic waste spillage in Raccoon City!"

"Travis!" hissed Cameron, shocked. "What the hell are you doing?! You want to get us in even more trouble?"

"You know about those dogs that nearly killed us, don't you?" continued Travis, his voice rising. "What the fuck are those supposed to be? No way those were normal dogs? So what the hell is going-"

He was silenced by Cameron kicking him in the shin. "What the hell was that for?!" he asked, annoyed.

"You know fine well what!" snapped Cameron back.

Fletcher ignored their bickering and just nodded. "Yes, I was aware of those dog things. Not at first, but last night I did, after my men killed a few of them that tried to get into the refugee compound."

"Whoa shit, really?" asked Cameron, taking his attention away from Travis' bruised ankle.

Fletcher nodded, before he continued. "No, as you probably guessed, Raccoon City hasn't been subjected to a toxic waste spillage. It's something much larger than that…and worse."

"Then what?" asked Travis, eager to get to the bottom of this whole mess.

Fletcher looked uncomfortable as he looked around him, and then moved a bit closer to Travis and Cameron. "Look, if I tell you everything I know I could be putting my job in jeopardy…maybe even my life."

Cameron raised an eyebrow. "Why would that be?"

"It's a long story," explained Fletcher, "but the short version is that Umbrella has a hand in this mess."

"Umbrella?" asked Travis, confused. "Why would they have something to do with this? Raccoon City is their base of operations in the U.S!"

"Yes, well, despite that, they're still to blame for all of this," replied Fletcher grimly. "I think we should discuss this further back at base where it's much safer, wouldn't you agree?"

They had taken temporary cover in an abandoned food warehouse, stacking a load of crates in front of the door in order to better reinforce it from anyone or anything trying to get in from outside, even if nothing had tried banging on the door to get in since they had gotten there. Now they were all scattered around the floor, lost in their own silent thoughts. Devlan was sat in the seat of an abandoned forklift truck, his feet perched up on the controls and staring down at the ground in front of him. Nick meanwhile, had disappeared to go look through the office upstairs to see if he could find anything of use to them. Mac was sat on a large wooden crate near to a set of steel shutters, Will's dog tags held in his hand. They weren't official dog tags per say, each set embossed with the Umbrella corporation logo, but they still meant something to him: the loss of one of his oldest and dearest friends and comrades, for a start.

He closed his fist around the tags.

"Don't worry Will, they'll pay for this…"

Ben and Dean were sat atop a set of crates next to each other, just watching the mercenaries as they went about their business, their weapons propped up near to them.

"How long are we gonna stay here?" asked Ben suddenly.

"Come on man, they lost two of their friends in the last half hour," replied Dean in a hushed whisper. "They could be the last ones in the U.B.C.S alive. Give them a bit of time to get through it." Ben seemed to get visibly rattled by that remark and got up, walking over to some storage shelves in the corner to have a look for anything useful. Dean sighed as he watched him go: he just wanted to get out of there as soon as possible, and he didn't blame him for feeling the same either. But these Umbrella mercenaries had lost an awful lot in this damned necropolis as well.

Nick suddenly appeared from the office, his M4A1 slung over his shoulder. He walked over to where the others were loitering. Some of them got to their feet as he approached.

"OK, the office was a dead end, nothing useful there. We should think about moving out in the next half hour."

"Fine by me," replied Devlan as he swung himself down from his perch. He'd just finished loading up his empty handgun magazines with spare 9mm rounds, and he pulled back the slide on his Eagle 6.0, tucking it into his pistol holster.

"The sooner we get out of here, the better," chipped in Mac from where he was stood. He turned to indicate the large shutter, probably used to bring in large shipments from the outside street area. "We could use this shutter to get out," he continued. "Unless the street outside's packed with zombies of course."

"It isn't," replied Nick. "I looked out the upstairs window, there's only the odd zombie out there, nothing that could be considered a great threat." He almost sounded as though he didn't even fear the zombies anymore, after killing so many of them.

"Could be a threat if we get scratched," said the Scot suddenly. "Like Joel was. He said he was going to be fine and look what happened. Now he's flat on his back somewhere with a bullet in his head. And Will would've joined him if he hadn't done the noble last stand thing."

Dean watched quietly from his spot as the Umbrella mercenaries talked amongst one another, until that last comment from McCormack made them all fall deadly silent. He wondered if they were all thinking of just giving up there and then.

"None of us could've seen that coming…" said Nick solemnly.

"Bull shit!" cried the Scot, getting to his feet and approaching his superior. "You and Taylor researched this T-Virus before we came here, so you knew about what it could do!" He pointed a finger into Nick's chest. "You could've said something to help, but you didn't! And now Joel's dead! They're both dead!"

"I didn't say anything because I knew you'd all freak out!" snapped Nick, shoving Mac's arm away from his chest. The Scotsman didn't make any move to respond. "Besides, how was I going to break the news that one of our best soldiers would turn into a flesh eater? 'Sorry to tell you this guys, but Joel's going to turn into a zombie and we have to put him down like a dog when he does.'? Besides, you already knew what this virus can do…you were all just too optimistic!"

The Scot seemed to be quietly seething, almost shaking with rage, as he turned and walked back up to the shutter, and punched it as hard as he could possibly muster. The sudden sound made Ben jump.

"FUCK!" he screamed. "Fuck it all to hell! First practically all of our unit gets butchered minutes after we first touched down here, then Joel turns into one of them. Now Will's gone, just because he wanted to do something noble with his last breath, but really he just wanted to kill as many as those freaks as possible! Why the hell are we even here in the first place?!"

"Because Umbrella offered $100,000 to anyone who makes it back alive," said Devlan suddenly from the corner, like he had suddenly appeared out of thin air. "We agreed to work for the Corporation because we didn't have a choice, remember? You said it yourself more than once. But compared to this, our past lives are paradise…" He sat himself down on another abandoned crate, crossing his arms in front of him and sighing.

"Hey, look," said Nick, trying to get the attention of his comrades. "Umbrella sent us into this death trap on purpose. So let's do something they won't expect: survive. We make it out of here alive, and we'll show them that they didn't get the better of us in the end. Right?" There was a long silence as the other two looked down at the floor, then up at each other and back towards Nick.

Mac nodded slowly. "Don't worry, after Will, I'll make sure those bastards pay for this. They can't get away with this: not something of this magnitude. They won't sweep it under the carpet, like all those other times."

"You got that right," said another voice suddenly. Dean turned around to see Ben standing next to him. He was so engrossed in the conversation that he hadn't noticed his partner standing there beside him, on his feet. "They've taken everything from us: our homes, our friends…our entire lives. I spent 5 years building a life for myself here, and it's all gone now. They're going to answer for all this, one way or another."

Dean nodded at his friend as their gazes met. "Yeah," he said, "they've destroyed everything good in this town, so it's only fair we return the favour." He reached into his pocket and bought out the storage device he had been given back at the law office the other day. "We get this out of the city and bust them wide open. Then they won't be able to hide anymore."

That last speech seemed to pick up the spirits in the room somewhat, and even Mac seemed to show traces if a smile on his dirty face, as he tucked Will's dog tag into his top pocket. "OK," he said finally. "When you put it like that, it makes me want to fight on and get through this. It's time to kick some Umbrella ass."

"Good to hear that, Mac," said Nick with a smile. "I'm sure Will would like that answer as well." Mac smiled again, as Nick turned to face the others in the warehouse.

"Now rest up well, people. We're leaving in 30 minutes."

Back at the refugee centre, Travis and Cameron were lead by Fletcher and Greene to an area behind the motel, out of sight of the other people there. Several tents had been erected on the dry ground, and inside several white-coated men milled about, taking notes on clipboards or carrying various medical tools. The soldiers on guard seemed a bit taken aback to see civilians there, but they relaxed when Fletcher explained that they were with him.

"This place is restricted to the public, so you should feel honoured," smiled Fletcher as the group stopped within one of the tents.

"Who are they?" asked Cameron curiously as a pair of white-coated men passed them by, talking amongst themselves.

"Military researchers," explained Greene suddenly, "who we called in after one of the other bases called something in…something quite unexpected."

"Were they attacked by devil dogs or something as well?" asked Travis, as the group passed into an open tent, where a pair of researchers hovered by a form underneath a white sheet. Then one of them pulled the sheet back to reveal the corpse of a twisted Doberman lying on a steel table. Cameron's face went pale at the sight of it. The memory of that last attack still made him feel very uncomfortable. "Guess I got my answer then," added Travis at the sight.

"These things have been found wandering in the forest, very near to the refugee centres in most cases," explained Fletcher, standing next to the desiccated corpse. "They attack on site, as you both discovered-"

Travis smiled in an awkward manner. "You could say that," he then said, through gritted teeth.

"-and…actually, I think someone else could explain this better than me. Doctor Coates?"

At the sound of the Lieutenant's voice, one of the researchers, a man with receding pale blonde hair and thin-framed spectacles, walked over, seemingly annoyed at being interrupted from his 'work'. But when he saw the two civilians standing there, he lightened up and greeted them with a nod.

"Gentlemen, this is Doctor Eric Coates, one of our head researchers," explained Fletcher. "He might seem a little…eccentric, but believe me, he knows his stuff."

"Yes, yes, well, if you say so Lieutenant," replied Dr. Coates with a measure of modesty, "but these things we've seen are unlike anything I or any of my fellow researchers have seen before." He didn't seem bothered by the fact these two civilians were back here among the secret things being kept there.

"You can say that again," noted Cameron, indicating the dead dog next to them. "That looks like it jumped out of my worst nightmares."

This particular specimen lying on the table next to them had most of its fur and its skin missing, so it seemed to resemble a skinned version, but one side of its body was badly burned as well, the surface of its hide reduced to a charcoaled state, as though someone had taken a blowtorch to it at close range. In addition, half of its skull had been reduced to a bloody pulp, probably from a close range shot to the head. The creature's remaining eye was a blank white, no trace of any life behind it.

"You're not a dog person I presume?" asked Dr. Coates.

"Not after today," replied Cameron, deadpan.

"He's more of a cat person, anyways," added Travis, causing someone to snigger at the joke being told at Cameron's expense.

"Look, can we move on please?" asked Cameron, visibly bristling. The same person who had sniggered cleared their throat, and the doctor continued.

"Anyway, as I was about to say…we've examined these creatures every which way we can," explained Dr. Coates, "and it all points to one thing: they should be dead."

"Shooting something in the head tends to do that," observed Travis, deadpan.

"No, not in that way," replied Coates, sounding a bit insulted. "We've examined the bodies of recently dead specimens every which way, and all evidence shows that they've been dead for a long time."

An uncomfortable silence descended in the tent.

"What…do you mean by that?" asked Cameron, nervously.

"Well…just by looking at these creatures, you can see their flesh is in an advanced state of decay, but they're still able to move around despite that…and their circulation systems are filled with congealed blood…and of course blood only congeals once you've died."

"How the hell is that possible?" asked Travis, shaking his head. "How can something that's technically dead still walk around as normal?"

"That is a very good question," replied Fletcher. By now, Corporal Greene had left to take care of something else, departing through the tent flaps. "My men reported that they shot these things dead on, and they still kept coming."

"That would make sense," replied Coates, indicating around the creature's head region. "These dogs…despite being dead in a traditional sense, they still show signs of limited brain activity."

"So…that means they can still move about?" suggested Travis.

Cameron nodded. "But you say limited brain activity…how limited would you say?"

Dr. Coates shrugged before he replied. "The most basic activity. These things seem to be acting on pure instinct than anything else: that is, the basic need to go out and feed, to sustain themselves. As soon as they see something that could qualify as food, they attack on sight, and possibly smell. We don't know how well their senses work."

"That's messed up man," said Travis, shaking his head.

"And the most interesting part?" asked Dr. Coates, walking around the table and picking another clipboard up. "We analyzed blood samples taken from all these…'specimens', and each of them was saturated in some kind of unknown virus."

"A virus?" asked Cameron, his interest piqued. "What kind of virus?" In response, Dr. Coates passed him the clipboard he had just picked up, which showed him several black and white images of a blood sample. He'd looked at blood samples before during his time in Biology class at High School, but here each sample was infested with hundreds of small, black cells that writhed with several flailing tendrils.

"Well…that's some sort of mutagenic virus, by the looks of it," explained Coates, as Travis stood by, looking none the wiser. All this science talk went over his head, as far as he was concerned. "But the exact composition still eludes us."

"A mutagenic virus," muttered Cameron, examining the shots he had been given. "So…could this be responsible for what happened to those dogs back there?"

"We believe so," interrupted Fletcher, talking for the first time in a long period. "And I think that is what's causing the trouble in Raccoon City."

"Really?" asked Travis, concerned. "Then if those dogs are turned dead by this virus, then what about-"

"The population of Raccoon City?" finished Cameron, and both friends shared the same worried glance at one another.

"My men who've been on recon patrols into the city suburbs have reported seeing some fucked-up shit," continued Fletcher. "They say the entire city's been reduced to a war zone: entire blocks on fire, dead bodies in the street-"

"Holy shit!" cursed Travis, cutting the Lieutenant off. "If that's the case, then we need to-"

"After what happened last time?" asked Fletcher. "Sorry gentlemen, but no way are either of you going anywhere else by yourselves again!" Travis grumbled in defeat and turned away, as Cameron watched warily. He was concerned about his friends of course, but it wasn't worth getting killed trying to find them in that so-called hellhole that Raccoon City had become.

"But there's more," exclaimed Coates, sounding excited.

"More?" asked Cameron, already feeling as though he'd seen enough for a whole lifetime. Coates lead them over to a table on the far side of the tent, where a much larger unmoving form had been covered by a grey tarpaulin. Travis felt as though he'd regret what would be underneath that tarp, and wasn't looking forward to it being revealed.

"Yes, there's move," exclaimed the army doctor, even as he threw the tarpaulin back with a slight flourish.

Everyone stared.

Travis really did regret seeing this now.

It was sort of like a stunted human, but he didn't know any human that was covered in green scales rather than normal skin, or had long, blood-stained claws where the fingers and toes should have been. Spines were gradually erupting from its shoulder areas, and its facial features couldn't be worked out, purely because of the fact that someone looked as though they'd taken the business end of a shotgun to it: the upper portion had been mangled, and the rest of the head region was coated in soaked-in blood.

Cameron retched, and was soon running back out of the nearby tent flaps, nearly knocking over Corporal Greene, who had just re-entered. Travis just stared at the sight, but he could feel his stomach groaning in unease.

"Isn't it marvellous?" asked Dr. Coates, visibly excited. "It's unlike anything I've ever seen in my career! This was shipped in from the Southern refugee centre: seems the soldiers assigned there found a couple of these wandering in the woods. Those claws are razor sharp as well, so don't touch unless you want your fingers sliced into bloody ribbons."

Fletcher looked at the doctor for a few seconds before he finally spoke. "Doctor Coates, considering that 'marvellous' specimen as you call it, killed at least three good soldiers, I think you should show a little more respect for human life and less for these damned freaks!"

Doctor Coates recoiled in surprise from the officer's outburst, before he threw the tarp back over the body of the twisted scaly creature and walked away to do something else, avoiding the Lieutenant's gaze and looking rather crest fallen in the process. Travis allowed himself to relax now the thing was out of sight.

Cameron approached the covered table, his face pale once more and holding his stomach carefully. "You OK?" Travis asked as his friend approached. Cameron nodded in an unsteady fashion, as he looked back at Dr. Coates, who was busy elsewhere, whispering to one of his subordinates.

"But anyway," said Fletcher, getting their undivided attention suddenly. "This…thing has the same virus found in those dogs in its blood stream, so chances are both of them are of the same origin."

"How does twisted dog lead to scaly…man monster thing though?" asked Cameron, waving an unsteady hand over the nearby covered form. He still sounded a little unwell after his recent spell.

"It doesn't make much sense to us either," replied Fletcher, "but that's just what the facts tell us. So in short, Raccoon City hasn't been subjected to a toxic waste spillage…rather, it's been subject to a bio-hazardous event. Namely, a viral outbreak."

"A virus outbreak?" asked Travis. "So…what does this virus do to humans?"

Fletcher gave them both a grim look. Cameron worked it out by himself in his head. Humans would probably become twisted monsters like the things they had witnessed so far today, things that should have existed by logical standards.

"Oh God no…"

"My men who've been into the city are unwilling to talk about what they've seen…as are the civilian survivors still taking refuge," explained Fletcher. "They've seen something really bad to mess them all up like that."

"But where'd this virus come from?" asked Travis. "It had to come from somewhere."

Fletcher lowered his voice slightly. "To be honest? I think Umbrella had something to do with it." Greene looked rather uncomfortable at that remark.

"Umbrella?" scoffed Travis, not sounding fully convinced. "Umbrella practically built Raccoon City! Why would they have reason to do all this?"

"If it were something they wanted to keep secret," said Cameron, piping up next to him suddenly.

"Believe it or not," added Fletcher, looking grim as he spoke, "Umbrella is responsible for what has happened in Raccoon City. They were the ones who approached us originally and requested quarantine, at least a day before things got really bad in the city. We were asked to devise a cover story for what was happening, while their board of directors is already in discussion as to find a way to remedy the overall situation."

Travis shook his head. "That's bullshit. You lied to everyone?"

"A necessary lie," said Greene suddenly, hands behind his back. "What if we told the world that Raccoon City had been subjected to a bio-hazardous outbreak? Then we'd only create even more panic."

"He's right," added Fletcher. "Neither of you might like it, but it's necessary."

Cameron sighed and shook his head, as Travis was already walking toward the tent exit. "Thanks for your hospitality Lieutenant," he said bitterly, "but we've still got some friends to find."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, but we have the best intentions for lying," said Greene, keeping his anger in check, his hands still behind his back.

"Well maybe I'll just tell everyone else about what's really going on," said Travis. Greene's confident face suddenly disappeared. "I'm sure those news crews outside would appreciate being told something for a change rather than being blown off all the time."

"You wouldn't-" started Greene, but he was cut off again.

"Want to take that risk?" asked Travis in a confrontational manner, his face set. Cameron just stood by, looking rather nervous at this sudden change of events. He was afraid that Travis would get them both thrown into even more trouble, or worse, jail. He envisioned himself facing a firing squad.

Greene took a threatening step towards them. "Look, you little jumped-up-"

"ENOUGH!" roared Fletcher suddenly, shutting everyone up. Greene looked at his superior for a few seconds, but finally thought better of arguing his case and stepped back instead. All eyes in the tent were on the little confrontation occurring now, but only for a few seconds: the researchers quickly went back to their work.

The Lieutenant took a few deep breaths before he continued. "We can't risk causing a media storm with the truth. Indeed, if I said anything, Umbrella would probably have my job…or my life."

"They wouldn't go that far!" hissed Cameron, horrified at the implications of that statement.

"Trust me guys, you don't know a damned thing about Umbrella," added Greene darkly. Travis looked at the Corporal with an amount of distaste, and then looked back at Fletcher before he spoke up again.

"People have the right to know the truth though!"

"And I agree with you, but we can't do anything right now," replied Fletcher. Travis groaned in defeat and shook his head, turning to leave the tent for the second time in as many minutes.

"Well if you can't do anything, then help us!" implored Cameron, piping up suddenly. "Those helicopters out there make trips to the city to look for survivors, right? Then put one of us on the next one due to leave! I know it sounds crazy, but trust us, please! We just want to find our friends!"

Greene scoffed. "Come on sir, you're seriously not thinking of letting a civilian take part in a military mission! You'd break every protocol in the book-"

"Fine."

"What?!" asked Greene, almost as a loss for words, but Fletcher ignored him for now.

"One of you, and only one, can be on one of the next helicopter that goes into the city," ordered Fletcher, calmly, unlike the Corporal stood next to him at the moment, his behaviour becoming even twitchier than before. "Keep this a secret of course: the other refugees shouldn't feel as though their requests to get inside the quarantine area aren't being heard."

"Thank you so much Lieutenant," said Cameron with a smile. "We both owe you a drink at least, right Travis?" He looked at Travis as he said that last part, and Travis nodded quickly when he realised what Cameron's look meant.

"Uh, yeah, thanks Lieutenant," he said, hurriedly. "Now if you'll excuse us please, we need to talk to someone."

Both young men turned and walked out of the tent, leaving its gruesome contents behind. As they left, Corporal Greene suddenly turned on Fletcher, his eyes flashing with barely-contained anger.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he shouted, forgetting the formality of rank for a moment. "Have you lost all concept of dealing with situations such as these-"

"Well I'm sorry if you feel that way Corporal," replied Fletcher, keeping cool and calm, "but I suppose my caring side got the better of me, unlike most of my colleagues here it seems. And they do have a point- the public deserves to know about what's happened in the city, sooner or later."

"But what about Umbrella-"

"Let me worry about them," replied Fletcher, cutting the Corporal off again. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get that helicopter recon sorted out." And with that, Fletcher walked out of the tent, following where Travis and Cameron had just gone.

Greene was left alone, feeling as though he were about to explode due to his commander's disregard for their orders. Hr growled in frustration and kicked out at one of the tables he was stood to, before he put his hands on his hips to try and calm himself down. He looked up and realised that some of the white-coated researchers in the tent had ceased their work and were staring at him fearfully.

"TAKE A PICTURE, IT'LL LAST LONGER!" he suddenly screamed at them, and they darted off in terror, looking for something to do that didn't involve being shouted out. Greene sighed again: in the end, he could hardly change his superior's views. Gordon Fletcher was always a stubborn bastard when it came to making his mind up.

Outside, Travis smiled as he and Cameron got back to his pick up truck. "Nice work Cam, I didn't think they let us do anything now."

"Well I thought you threatening to expose the truth wouldn't work, to begin with," replied Cameron casually, as he opened the passenger side door and jumped into the vehicle. Travis followed him soon after, parking himself in the driver's seat.

"Maybe not, but I needed to let some steam off," said Travis, sounding almost pleased with himself for that last remark. "This is all so fucked up," he then said, rubbing his tired face. He needed some proper sleep desperately. "But anyway, who goes in the chopper ride then?"

"I'll go," replied Cameron, not missing a beat. "We all know you're useless at flying. You're a star quarterback who's sacked guys twice his size on the football field, but you're scared of flying!"

"Stuff you, smart ass!" snapped Travis back, shoving his friend in the shoulder.

As everyone else was busy getting their equipment together and sorted, Nick was sat atop a pair of abandoned crates, carving random, swirling patterns into the surface with his combat knife. He didn't seem to notice as Dean approached and sat down on the crate opposite of him. He eventually glanced up at the filthy face of the young officer.

"So what's your story?" asked Dean after a short silence.

"What story?" replied the Lieutenant, as he continued to carve into the wood with intense concentration. "I'm a guy who got offered a lifeline and said yes, and now I seriously regret agreeing to anything in the first place."

"Oh you know what I mean," replied the officer, not relenting. "About how you came to be in the U.B.C.S?" Nick seemed to be ignoring him at first, as he continued to carve into the crate, before he finally bought it his knife up and tossed it at a nearby stack of boxes, punching straight through the surface and sticking in. The sudden movement made Dean flinch.

"You wanna hear about my story? Fine, how long you got?" asked the Lieutenant, agitated.

"As long as it takes," replied Dean, a bit taken aback by the man's attitude. "Not like we're in a rush or anything is there?" Nick seemed to bite his lip a couple of times before he finally replied, his gaze shifted downwards.

"I was U.S Marine Corps, back in the day," he started, "and our unit was involved in Desert Storm. After Kuwait was liberated we were stationed outside of the city in case any troubles flared up again. Now, in my unit I was known as the man to go to if you needed anything."

"Like black marketing?" asked Dean suddenly.

"No!" snapped Nick, but then apologising afterwards for his snappy method of reply. "Legitimate stuff, such as if some of the guys needed mail from their families that couldn't get through straight away, as I had connections in a lot of places. I was a real help to most of the regiment."

"Oh right," said Dean in reply. "Sorry, carry on."

"Anyways, my commanding officer came to one day and asked me to get the unit some crates of beer and other refreshments so we could have a party at the weekend, and I agreed to. Thing is, when I was going to find my contact, I passed by the place where we were holding the prisoners, and one of the Corporals, I forgot his name, was beating one of the prisoners. I mean, really beating him red raw with a cane. The guy was practically bleeding to death, deep cuts on his back." The Lieutenant swallowed and took a slight breath before he continued again.

"One thing I couldn't stand while I was in Iraq was the mis-treatment of the P.: I became a soldier to help people, not cause more harm. So I went to my captain and told him about what I saw. He told me to sit tight and that he'd deal with it, and naively I believed him."

He sighed deeply and took off his beret, running a hand through his hair and settling the head gear back on smartly. Dean waited patiently for Nick to start talking again.

"Next morning, some MP's turned up and say that they had a warrant for my arrest for black marketing, even though it was all totally legitimate. Turned out that my captain was involved in the prisoner abuse, and he had me stitched up so it wouldn't come to light with any other officers."

"Geez, that's fucked up," said Dean, shaking his head. "Didn't anyone try to vouch for you?"

Nick shook his head. "My captain got to all my old buddies, threatened them all with dishonourable discharge or criminal accusations if they said anything." By now, Nick's jaw was set tight, showing his displeasure at having to bring this bad story up again.

"None of them were willing to stand up for me, so my trial was a bit one-sided, so to speak. Imagine that eh? Friends for life, and they do nothing when I needed them the most!" Nick laughed after this remark, and Dean noted the type of laugh it was: the type of laugh that showed he didn't care about anything anymore. Considering their current position, he wasn't surprised.

"I went down for 10 years, just like that. And after most of my sentence had passed, Umbrella came to me and offered me a way out. All I had to do was make a verbal confirmation, and my fate was sealed: they took care of the rest."

"And so here you are," finished Dean. Nick nodded in response, but kept talking afterwards.

"I managed to get my revenge though: my first mission as an officer dispatched us to an outbreak where my old unit happened to have been deployed, to act as garrison duty at some Umbrella storage facility in the Mojave Desert. I got to thank old Captain Hodges for what he did to me: by putting a bullet in his head. Besides, it was for the best anyway: he was already a zombie."

"Poetic justice," mused Dean aloud, before both of them shared a chuckle at the corrupt Hodge's fate. "Then again, way I see it, if you didn't end up here; me and Ben could've been dead by now."

"Yeah…" said the Lieutenant, getting to his feet and walking over to the crate stack to pull his knife out of the surface. "There's been times I wished I never said yes to Umbrella, but the thought of helping just one or two people gives me some hope for the future, to stick it out until the end."

"Well at least someone's optimistic," said Dean solemnly. "What do I have left to fight for? Nothing. Just the chance of me getting out of here in one piece." He sighed and lowered his head, running his hands through his hair. "Hope kept me going, but after what happened to Joel and Will…"

"If you've got hope Dean, never let it go," answered Nick, holstering his combat knife. "Hold onto it: it keeps your spirit high." Dean smiled and nodded in response, before something else in his heart stung at him, and he spoke up once again.

"Nick?" he asked. "I need to tell you something…about Taylor."

"About Taylor?" asked Nick, sitting back down again. "What about Taylor?"

"When he died," began Dean, "we were being attacked by a zombified lion when we passing through the zoo, and we thought it was dead. But it got back up when my back was turned, and Taylor…he shoved me out the way and it mauled him instead of me." That last part seemed to be delivered with extreme difficulty, as though it were almost impossible for Dean to get the words out.

"So…it's my fault he's dead. He died just to make sure I made it this far."

Nick was silent for a few seconds before he spoke up again. Dean half expected him to berate him for getting one of his best men killed, but it wasn't to be.

"So you're feeling guilty then?" he asked instead.

"Well what else should I be feeling?" replied Dean. "I saw that look you gave me when I told you Taylor was dead. It was like your hope had been crushed."

Nick sighed again before he continued. "This situation we're in…not everyone can be expected to make it out alive. Yes, Taylor was one of our best men, but I don't blame you for what happened to him. If we manage to expose Umbrella for what they really are, then I'm sure his death won't be in vain."

Dean seemed content with that answer, and offered a weak smile that was barely visible through his grimy face.

"Hey boss, we good to go?" asked a voice from behind them. They turned to look at Mac who was stood there, his shotgun held in his hands. "Cause the other guys are getting a bit impatient here." Behind where Mac was stood, Dean could see Ben checking over his gear and loading an acid round into the grenade launcher he had recently acquired, while Devlan was pacing back and forth in front of the shutter constantly, his rifle clutched before him.

"OK then," said Nick, readying his own shotgun. He moved around so he could view everyone in the warehouse as he talked. "Let's not waste anymore time than we have to here." He and Dean started to approach the shutter, as the latter checked that his own weapons were loaded and ready to go.

A very familiar shriek from somewhere made them all jump in surprise and aim their weapons about them. Dean's blood rang cold at the very recent memory of the last encounter.

_More of them?!_

"Not again," muttered Ben fearfully as he scanned for any targets in the vicinity. They'd barely survived fighting off what seemed like an entire battalion of those things a short time ago, and now it looked like they were back for even more.

"Come on, show your ugly face," muttered Mac, cocking his shotgun for extra emphasis. "I've got a shell with your name on it!" The small group began to form a little circle again, underneath a rooftop skylight, much like they had done earlier on, so they were fully prepared for the enemy when they came.

There was a sudden BANG of something heavy landing on glass, and everyone's gaze shifted upwards, towards the glass skylight. A very familiar reptilian creature was perched atop the glass structure, its face twisted into a smile of glee. It bought one of its claws back to smash the glass in.

"Shit! Move!" cried Nick.

They all moved away from their positions just as the glass shattered with a single blow, and shards rained down into the warehouse. They all moved in time to avoid having their skin shredded by the glass or the creature's claws, which fell almost as fast as the glass did. Before it could touch the ground, everyone opened up on it as one, and it was shredded by the countless rounds punching into it. A shotgun blast from Ben tore off its head and threw the rest of its body backwards, sending it crashing into a stack of crates and making a rather big mess. There was a tense silence as everyone checked for any other Hunters in the area, but they were safe for now.

"Well that was easy," said Ben, lowering his Remington shotgun. "How about we get-"

The windows on both sides of the warehouse suddenly shattered inwards and more reptilian forms darted in, moving as blurs until they landed on the floor in between the group. At least 3 Hunters glared towards the survivors with maddened expressions, seemingly grinning in glee at finding some still-living prey amongst all the chaos.

"Fuck! Kill them all!" cried Nick as he jumped away from the nearest Hunter, going for his trigger.

"Don't need to tell me twice!" Dean yelled back, already firing at the Hunter standing just to his right.

They peeled off in every direction, as the Hunters suddenly took to the air, landing atop things all over the warehouse floor in an effort to stay alive. Devlan fired at a light green Hunter as it bounded onto the forklift truck, then from there to perch onto a wall before it launched itself at him, but his dead eye accuracy came into effect once more, firing 4 rounds into the B.O.W's face as it leapt at him. It crumpled onto the floor in front of him as he was already shifting his aim to a new target.

Mac and Ben ganged up on a lone dark green Hunter as it bounded over another crate stack, their scatter shots always missing it by a short distance. It soon came around the crates and dashed towards them, its claws bought back for a deadly swipe, but both of them nailed it with near-point blank blasts, rupturing its torso severly and throwing it backwards through the stack it had just appeared from behind. Ben cocked his weapon and looked up towards the windows to see another reptilian form trying to climb in through the window in an awkward manner.

"Shit!" he cursed, readying for yet another attack.

Dean fired at a Hunter climbing in through one of the other windows, sending it falling back from where it came from in a spray of blood. Yet another one managed to make it through a different window, landing behind Nick and trying to slash him across the back, but the mercenary sensed the attack coming and ducked down, barely dodging the swipe as it brushed over his beret. He came back up and struck the thing hard in the face with his shotgun butt, forcing it backwards, far enough for him to drive the weapon's barrel into its stomach and fire, gutting the beast and killing it instantly. Devlan fired at yet another reptilian shape as it bounded over him and onto one of the walls, preparing for an attack, but the sniper foiled it by shooting it through the neck and upper torso at least 3 times. It dropped from the wall, landing on the cold, hard ground with a loud crack.

One last Hunter bounded into the warehouse through one of the shattered windows, shrieking as it landed atop another stack of wooden boxes. It shrieked and leapt down, avoiding more hot lead fired towards it as it dashed towards Dean. The cop raised his M4 and pulled the trigger, only to wear one of the worst sounds he could possibly hear at a time like this.

CLICK!

"Aw shit!" he cried, realising that in the heat of battle that'd he forgotten to keep track of how many rounds were left in his current magazine, and now a clawed killing machine was bearing down towards him. He didn't have time to reload or to go for his sidearm. It was going to kill him. It chirruped, almost in joy, and bought its claws back, preparing for a fatal dash attack.

"DEAN!" yelled a familiar voice, before someone barged into him, throwing him to the floor. He looked up to see Mac stood where he had been standing a moment before, trying to raise his shotgun up to fire. Dean had been here before. This is exactly what Taylor had done, two days before. Mac was going to sacrifice himself to save Dean. Again, another noble act that would lead to another lost life.

"Mac, no!" cried Dean, far too late to have any influence on what happened next.

The Hunter dashed at the Scotsman, impossibly fast for any human eye to register. There was the sound of something fleshy being cut open, and blood sprayed onto the floor as the Hunter kept on going. Mac continued to stand there, seemingly frozen to the spot, his eyes opened wide in shock. Suddenly, he dropped his shotgun and his hands shot up to his neck. Dean could see the blood that was beginning to trickle from behind his clenched fingers. Slowly, he turned to his fellow mercenaries.

"Sorry guys," he croaked; his voice barely a whisper. "Looks like you have to go on without me." He removed his hands from his throat, and now they could all see the ugly rent that had been torn through the man's neck, exposing the vertebrae in his neck. Blood literally gushed from his wound like a waterfall, and in 2 seconds flat, the man's eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped to the ground lifelessly.

"MAC!" screamed Nick and Devlan in unison, both unloading their current magazines into the Hunter that had just killed their comrade, perforating its body and sending it slumping to the floor, blood pumping from the countless wounds in its torso. That wasn't enough though, and Nick was soon hovering over the thing's body, drawing his knife and driving it again and again into its visage, putting out its eyes in his blind fury, the blood spraying back onto him.

He screamed obscenities as the monster, even though it couldn't hear him anymore.

"Nick, he's gone! Let it go!" cried Devlan as he and Ben struggled to restrain the Lieutenant. They had to practically drag him backwards and drop him onto the floor, as the man continued to swear fluently before he suddenly just stopped, panting for breath and glaring at Mac's corpse, lying there on his back, spread-eagled. After a few tense seconds, he got to his feet unaided, sheathing his combat knife. He then turned and walked over into the corner, muttering to himself as Devlan tried to offer him some sort of comfort, but it wasn't working by the looks of it.

"Geez…" said Ben to no-one in particular, as Dean got back to his feet, somewhat shakily at that. "We're dropping like flies. Seems like there isn't much chance of us getting out of this damned city alive."

Dean sighed as he looked down at the Scotsman's corpse. The amount of blood that was now pooling beneath his upper body was obscene. That was one less gun in their arsenal now: with only 4 survivors left in their group, their chances of escaping intact had diminished once again. What Nick had told him about keeping his hope…that looked as though it had been utterly dashed now.

Suddenly, Devlan entered into their view, and stripped the corpse of what ammunition he had left, along with his dog tags, removed via use of the sniper's combat knife. With that done, he pulled out a white handkerchief and laid it over the Scot's pale face to hide the horrific wound he had recieved, bowing his head slightly as he did so. He got back up, looking back at the two cops who so far, had been watching silently. Nick was still stood in the corner, staring at the wall and saying nothing.

"Come on," Devlan said simply. "We're going." He turned back towards Nick, who was no longer standing in the corner but was now approaching them. His eyes looked red and sore, like he'd been crying. He just glared at them as he took a handful of shells offered to him by Devlan and dropped them into his vest pockets. The sniper shoved the remaining shells into Ben's hands, who just accepted them and gave Dean a look of uncertainty.

"You all good to go?" asked Nick, trying to keep his rage in check, as he fiddled with his shotgun.

"Y-yeah, we are," answered Ben after a while, seemingly surprised by Nick's coolness after what had just happened.

"Then come on then," answered Nick, leading the way over towards the large steel shutter across from them. Before following them, Dean glanced down one last time at Mac's body.

"Sorry Mac," he said, before running to join up with the others.

They arranged themselves by the front shutter, waiting for Devlan to press the switch that would open the shutter for them to escape through, a plan that Mac had originally bought up. Now it seemed weird that they'd be putting it into action without him being there to support them. They readied their weapons and gave the sniper a nod. With a swift motion, the door lever was lowered, and the shutter began to gradually rise up, revealing the asphalt outside at ground level.

Almost immediately, there was another chorus of moans and several pairs of feet appeared within the small crack. Some of the group jumped back in surprise, levelling their guns at the ground. The sound of hands beating against the steel surface was also heard.

"I thought you said there was only one or two of them outside!" shouted Ben.

"There was!" cried back Nick, readying a grenade in his hand. "That commotion must've attracted more of them. Fire in the hole!" As he shouted that last part, he pulled the pin on the grenade and rolled it under the shutter outside. A couple of seconds later, a loud explosion rang out, and smoke and fire poured in under the partially-opened shutter, as blood and body parts were heard splattering onto everything in range outside.

"OK! Get going!" cried Nick as the shutter now opened fully. The smoke cleared to reveal several more figures shambling towards them, may of them covered in what was left of their cohorts after a hand grenade was rolled at their feet. They showed no signs of stopping though.

"Lock and load!" shouted Ben to no-one in particular as he fired an acid round into a small group of zombies, singing them all to death, while Dean fired off an M203 grenade, blowing a even more into bloody pieces. The ruptured remnants of someone's internal organs splashed onto the lower legs of his jeans. With a couple of quick shotgun blasts, Nick had felled the last few zombies, clearing the immediate space for the group to escape through. They didn't wait to be told to go as half of them quickly filed out onto the street, aiming their weapons here and there to scan for threats.

Here it looked as though the chaos engulfing Raccoon had yet to reach this area, as there were no broken windows in the buildings on either side of the street and no wrecked cars, only parked ones. It looked more like a ghost town than a town hit by the apocalypse here, it seemed. There was still one main indicator of the chaos though: the moaning of Raccoon City's former citizens, as they filed out of the surrounding alleyways and destroyed store fronts.

"Wonderful," muttered Dean, firing his last M203 grenade into yet another approaching throng of zombified civilians that were piling out of a charred doorway. The round blew at least 9 of them into bloody chunks, coating the surrounding walls in gore and tearing the doorway open. The rifle and grenade launcher combo now totally empty of ammo, so he tossed it to the ground, freeing him up and allowing him to draw his Beretta. He still had his shotgun of course, but he was running low on ammo for that, and preferred to keep his distance at this point.

"Oh well, I was getting tired of hiding anyways!" said Devlan as he opened fire, dropping a couple of more walking corpses with his precise shots. Nick had also switched weapons, pulling out his handguns and blazing away at a knot of zombies that had suddenly emerged from a small alleyway to their right. He dropped another 5 of them before he was forced to reach for another set of fresh clips.

"Nearly out…" he muttered to himself, switching over to his shotgun and pumping a new shell into it.

"God, does it ever end?" shouted Ben as he fired yet another acid round before he switched over to the explosive rounds for his M79. So much for this area looking untouched by the virus…

A window shattered above them, and a male zombie crashed to the ground next to Dean's feet, slowly getting to his feet. The cop could see practically every detail of the man's injuries, as his white shirt was so badly ripped and torn that all that was left of it was a few ragged strips covering his upper left torso. His stomach and chest had been savagely torn into, exposing the gleaming bone beneath, along with a few internal organs into the bargain, while one of it legs had been bitten into a fair few times as well, exposing the knee joint and apparently twisting the limb as well.

With a disgusted scowl, the cop kicked the creature back to the ground before he fired a 9mm round into its face at point-blank range. "Fucker…" he snarled.

Another zombie suddenly crawled out from underneath a parked pick-up truck, a female with brown hair and wearing a pink vest, ripped at the shoulder to reveal a single bite mark, and one of her legs torn away just above the knee joint. She grabbed onto Devlan's ankle with one of her hands, trying to pull her teeth closer to his calf, but the sniper noticed this and pulled away his leg in time, before planting a kick into her face, snapping her neck back and killing her instantly.

"Sorry…" he whispered. Despite these monsters trying to kill them without remorse, they were human once, and he still felt a little guilty at putting them out of their misery.

They came to a fork in the road and came to a halt, as zombies continued to approach them from where they just come from.

"Now which way?" cried out Dean as he fired a handgun round into the face of a man with only one arm. Nick seemed to be thinking as he looked up at some nearby street signs, not firing at the zombies that were drawing closer and closer to him. He couldn't deliberate any longer, lest he put them all in danger.

"This way!" he cried suddenly. "Hurry!" He fired into a zombified security guard, throwing it backwards into the zombies behind it and knocking them all to the ground. He advanced over the fallen group (pausing to give one of them a kick to the face), leading his companions down a street marked as '6th Avenue', while they discharged their weapons at even more creatures attacking them from nearly every direction, like they had just materialised out of thin air. So much for 'just one or two zombies' on the street, though Dean, remembering Nick's original estimate.

Ben fired his M79 at a trio of zombies approaching them from his left, blowing them all into chunks with the sudden scatter of explosive bomblets. One of them survived with its legs blown away, leaving it to crawl after them, trailing blood, but he didn't consider it an immediate threat and just ignored it. Besides, a couple of seconds later Dean put it down with a head shot. Zombies seemed to melt out of the shadows from all around them, at odds with the relatively untouched condition of the street they were on. Ben wished he had enough ammo to destroy them all, but he didn't have that luxury unfortunately.

Nick blasted away at yet more flesh eaters closing in on him, knocking them down and giving him some more room to work with. One of them had its torso ruptured wide open by an earlier wound, but it still came towards him stubbornly, groaning constantly. He couldn't dwell too long on any one zombie, he thought to himself, as he head shot a large woman with a broken nose. He had to lead the others to safety as soon as possible, and not bog himself down in the details.

Dean picked off a couple more zombies and reloaded his Beretta, before he suddenly heard something he hadn't heard for a few days now. The barking of dogs. And he guessed that they wouldn't be very friendly dogs. He glanced to his left to see a trio of infected canines, two Doberman and a German Shepherd with its tail missing, come charging out of an open alleyway, their fangs glistening in the light with drool.

"Head's up!" he cried, switching over to his shotgun and opening fire on the undead mongrels. He knocked one of them off of its feet with a whimper, before Devlan joined in, firing his Eagle 6.0 handgun several times at one of the still-sprinting dogs, bringing it down as blood sprayed from its face and chest regions. The dog that Dean had shot before got back to its feet and charged once more, this time towards his partner who hadn't noticed it yet, so busy was he with the zombies in front of him.

"Ben!" shouted Dean as loud as humanly possible, hoping to get his friend's attention. Luckily, Ben turned in good time to see the creature bearing down on him, lowering his grenade launcher and preparing his Beretta just as it made a lunge for him. He fired off 3 shots in quick succession, the rounds smacking into the monster's face, blowing away parts of its skull with each round and knocking its body to the floor with a wet splat. He gasped in relief as the body slapped to the tarmac.

"Thanks for the heads up," said Ben with a smile, but it went unnoticed.

"Nick!" shouted out Devlan, but the Lieutenant failed to notice the shouted warning or the undead Doberman closing in on his ankles from behind him. Not until it was way too late of course. The U.B.C.S officer turned just in time to see the creature leap into the air, its fangs heading for his throat.

He raised his arm in time to block the attempted attack from the undead animal, but its teeth still sank into his left forearm and he was thrown to the ground onto his back, the creature pinning him down with its weight as it shook the man's forearm like a rag doll, tearing into him further. The Lieutenant cried out in agony as the fangs ripped through his skin and muscle.

Dean balked at the sight, not because of the fact Nick was being attacked, but because it meant the man was now infected. But they'd have to worry about that later.

With a war cry, the cop ran forward and booted the dog in the side of the head as hard as he could muster. It whimpered and let go of its intended prey, rolling away a few feet. He was about to blow it apart with his shotgun, but by then Nick had recovered, rolling onto his side and firing a single aimed shot into the monster's skull. It flopped to the ground without another sound.

"God-damned fucking mutt!" roared Nick as he looked down at his perforated forearm, the blood rapidly staining the green of his fatigue shirt. "I'm fine!" he then shouted, as Ben tried to help him to his feet, but he was getting up under his own free will.

"Boss! You OK?" asked Devlan, as he fired into a zombie that was getting too close for comfort. Despite Nick's mauling, the zombies around them still didn't let up, and now that some of the group were distracted by helping a wounded comrade, they were using the window of opportunity to get closer to their prey. Their constant moaning was becoming a major distraction.

Dean fired into a trio of zombies, blowing them backwards and giving the group some more breathing room to work with. "Fuck!" he cried, reaching to load some fresh shells into the weapon, realising that he would probably run out soon. "What's taking so damned long?" he asked over his shoulder, just as a zombie postman (still carrying his mail bag into the bargain) lunged for him. Luckily, Dean swung his shotgun around in time, cracking the thing in the cheek and knocking it down from out of his sight.

Nick slung his shotgun over his shoulder and drew one of his handguns, as his left arm appeared to have gone numb all of a sudden, hanging at his side even as Devlan tried to tie a sterile bandage around the wounded area, the pristine white rapidly turning crimson. Ben stood nearby, having now drawn his Remington and firing at anything undead that got within 8 feet of them. He wasn't going for outright kills: just something to force the enemy back and create room to work with. He noticed that the zombies were still getting to their feet and trying to come after him, even as he blew off their limbs or opened up their chest cavities.

"Jesus," he whispered to himself, ejecting yet another spent shell. "At this rate we're all gonna be dead."

Behind him, Nick finally found himself able to stand without the sniper's help, aiming with only one hand and firing at an incoming man in a double-breasted suit. The round went off target slightly though, punching a hole into the man's collarbone. With a grimace, the Lieutenant adjusted his aim and fired again, this time blowing a hole into the thing's right eye socket and dropping it instantly.

"Let's get going!" he cried out to those around him, moving to lead the way forward once more. Devlan showed concern for his superior as his movements were rather haphazard and pained. Next to him, Ben fired into the skulls of a few more lingering zombies, turning their brains into a crimson mush that splattered onto everything in range. The cop wondered if he'd ever get to wear clean clothes again.

"OK, this way!" cried Nick again, getting everyone's full attention. He pushed past Dean, who was busy reloading his Beretta yet again. "It's not far n- AAAHHH!!!" Nick cried suddenly, buckling as he walked.

Everyone's gaze darted down to see that a zombie had managed to catch the Lieutenant out with the playing possum trick, and was now tearing a generous chunk of the man's flesh out of his right calf muscle. An unbelievable amount of blood sprayed from the fresh wound, making Ben and Devlan gawp in shock. Then the sniper recovered from his initial shock and ran over to help his commander, pulling out his knife and driving it into the zombie's ear and through into its brain, causing it to spasm and finally let go. Almost as the same time, he grabbed onto Nick, just quickly enough to prevent the U.B.C.S officer from falling to the ground in agony. He was still bleeding profusely.

"Damn it…" muttered Nick as he barely managed to support his weight across his friend's frame.

"Nick!" cried Dean, as he both and Ben ran up to the two mercenaries, the latter sweeping his shotgun back and forth in an effort to deter any zombies from getting too close to them, but of course it wouldn't work in this situation. He switched his pump-action out for his Beretta instead, almost immediately unloading a 9mm slug into the face of a brunette woman dressed in jeans and a red blouse.

"Fuck…what a rookie mistake to make…" muttered the Lieutenant as he appeared to become somewhat light-headed, his eyes lolling about randomly.

"Don't talk!" cried Devlan as he began to wrap another bandage around his superior's calf, the white quickly becoming saturated with Nick's blood. A gunshot from Ben rang out and yet another zombie slumped lifelessly to the ground next to them.

"Any time there!" cried Dean, a hint of annoyance in his voice as he blasted into more approaching zombies with his Beretta. A man taller than him managed to break past his firing line and grab onto him, only to be dealt with when Ben fired a point-blank shot through its left temple, startling the intended victim into the bargain.

"Fuck…go on without me," muttered Nick, becoming delirious. "It's not too far to the office building…" Dean rolled his eyes. He'd had enough of people telling him to go on without them, only to be left behind to die rather than making an effort to survive.

"No, you're gonna lead us there you lazy ass!" he half-shouted, as he stooped to pick the wounded U.B.C.S member off of the ground, helped by Devlan. "I've already stood by while too many people I've liked have died, and I won't let you join them!"

That left just Ben to make sure nothing got too close to them, which was easier said than done. He pulled out his shotgun and kicked a short female zombie away from him.

"Fuck! What the hell are you doing guys?!" he cried, panic creeping into his voice. He stepped back to avoid another zombie as it lunged for him, missing him by a mile and landing on its face instead. Everyone else ignored his pleas, trying to get Nick lucid again. He'd bowed his head and appeared to have passed out, leaving Devlan and Dean to support his considerable weight and try to get him roused again.

"Shit!" cried Dean. "Real bad time to pass out on us!"

"You can say that again!" cried Devlan back.

The sniper suddenly removed a needle filled with green liquid from one of his pouches and tossed it to Dean. "That's an adrenaline shot, inject it into his heart!"

"What?!" asked Dean, looking at the considerably-sized needle then back at the frail-looking Nick being held up from the ground. "But I've never given someone an adrenaline shot to the heart before! What if I end up killing him?!"

"There's a first time for everything!" grunted Devlan through gritted teeth, as he looked over towards Ben, who was gradually backing away from an encroaching horde of undead bearing down towards them. Even with his shotgun he'd be overwhelmed soon without some kind of support.

With a loud curse, Dean muttered a prayer and stabbed the needle into Nick's chest cavity, the needle sliding in with relative ease. Once it had gone in fully, he injected the contents, watching as the light green fluid vanished from sight. For a few seconds there was nothing as he removed the needle and tossed it aside.

Then suddenly, Nick's eyes shot open and he threw his head back, letting out a roar of pain and elation as the massive adrenaline boost brought him back round. He looked about him with wide eyes and clenched teeth, gasping for breath through them. Devlan gave him a hard slap to the cheek to get his attention.

"Boss! You OK to lead us?" he asked.

"Fuck yeah!" shouted back his superior, as he shoved Dean away from him a bit too forcefully so he was supported only by Devlan, his weight lifted off of his wounded leg. As if acting on autopilot, he pulled out one of his handguns and fired, the shot passing straight through the forehead of a short male zombie that had been closing in on Ben. Dean's eyes opened wide in surprise.

_Guess that shot did work after all…_

Ben Campbell was sure that he was going to die right then and there. He'd picked exactly the wrong moment to reload his shotgun, just as a pair of female zombies, both of them moving much faster than those around them, broke through the undead throng and came right towards him. He was in the middle of inserting fresh shells into his weapon when they advanced, and in the rush to raise his weapon up and pull the trigger, the weapon jammed on him suddenly, one of the shells getting jammed in the firing breech. He was left with no time to go for his sidearm.

"Aw shit-" he cursed, waiting for the inevitable.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The first female had portions of her skull blown away as two 9mm slugs slammed into her face, and a second later the second one's head snapped back as another shot pierced her forehead, and she slumped to the ground with a wet slapping sound against the asphalt. He looked over his shoulder to see an outstretched arm holding a smoking Beretta, and he followed the arm to see the face of his partner Dean, looking back at him with a grin. Beyond him was Nick, being supported up by Devlan and aiming one of his handguns.

"You looked like you needed a hand."

"Yeah," gasped Ben, "thanks." With the thanks out of the way, he went about fixing his weapon jam, as both of them approached the now-conscious Nick, who was now amazingly standing by his own accord, despite the state his leg was in.

"This way!" he cried, motioning for them to follow him. As he turned, both his handguns discharged and a pair of zombies hit the ground at the same time. Despite being delirious a couple of minutes before, he was no fighting fit and leading the small group once more.

The others followed behind him, taking out anything that got too close for comfort.

They'd left the zombies pursuing them far behind, and were now walking through another abandoned street, getting very close to their ultimate destination now: Dean could almost taste the victory in the air. Nick's adrenaline shot had worn off now, and so Ben and Dean were now supporting his weight between them, as Devlan lead the way, following Nick's directions.

"You gonna be OK?" asked Ben suddenly.

"I'll live…for now," sighed Nick, still breathing a little harshly, and sweating. His beret had dropped off his head during the rather stressful situation beforehand, and it hadn't turned up since. He was sweating a lot as well, struggling to keep his eyes open.

"But what about your infection?" asked Dean, dealing with the inevitable question.

"I can hold it off until we get to where we need to be, trust me," breathed Nick, shaking his head slightly. "Then we can worry about that factor."

"Well we might want to hurry in that regard," said Devlan, slowing to a halt.

Erected across the street before were a series of steel barricades, light blue in colour, with the words 'Raccoon City police Department' emblazoned across the side of each one. Hard to believe that something originally used by Dean and Ben in the past could be slowing them down so much now, especially at a time like this. The barriers were too high to climb over, and too heavy to even consider moving aside as well.

"Not again…" scowled Dean.

"And so close too," whispered Devlan, looking up at a large building in the distance past the barricades, at least 10 stories tall and with row upon row of glass windows on all sides. The Umbrella logo was stuck to the side facing the group. It made sense to figure that the building was their ultimate destination.

"That where we going?" asked Ben. Nick nodded in response.

"But our path's blocked!" half-cried Dean.

"We'll have to go around, that's all," replied Nick, as he seemed to shove Dean and Ben away from him. "Leave me; I'm sure I can walk by myself now." Hesitantly, the two cops stepped back from the wounded lieutenant, watching as he limped for a bit, but was soon walking under his own admission, much to the surprise of everyone there. He certainly had a lot of determination in him to help him get this far.

"Come on," he said, unslinging his shotgun in front of him, "let's get going." He began to lead slow and unsteady way past Devlan towards a narrow alleyway to their right.

Ben shot Dean a hopeful look. "Heh, nice to see he made a quick recovery from that last scare. Come on, let's go."

"Yeah," replied Dean, bringing out his Beretta and checking the magazine. He had about 8 rounds left in his current magazine and about 3 spare full magazines in reserve. The two Raccoon cops followed after the two Umbrella mercs.

They hadn't run into any zombies for a while now, and Dean hoped it would stay that way. He and Ben still had a fair amount of handgun ammo and shotgun shells left between them, but Nick and Devlan were a different matter altogether. The sniper had maybe 2 spare clips left for his rifle and only two full magazines left for his Eagle handgun, but he still had a box of 30 handgun bullets left, it'd just be a pain to reload under pressure. As for Nick, the Lieutenant still had a couple of handgun mags left, but only one handgun, as the other had been lost a while back when he lead them out of the zombie trap. But during that time, he'd been fighting like a Spartan, so Dean wasn't surprised that he'd lost one of his guns. As for his shotgun, he still had about 9 shells left, along with those loaded into the weapon at the moment, so he still had a fighting chance. But then again, if caught in a protracted battle he'd soon run out, same for all of them. Flight would take precedence over fight for the time being.

Dean glanced at his watch. It was half past four in the afternoon now, and darkness was descending. He was amazed at how much time had passed since they had first taken cover in that old warehouse. Time flies when you're having fun, he thought to himself.

_Yeah, if fight__ing zombies and mutated frogs can be considered fun…_

BANG!

The single shot made them all jump, and it took Dean a moment to realise that Devlan had put down a crawling zombie ahead of them. Almost as quickly as he had shot it down, he'd holstered his sidearm once more. He gave the fallen monster a kick to the side of the head to make sure it was fully dead as he walked past. Everyone else sighed as they lowered their weapons and got a little less jittery. As they walked on, Dean stared at the dead zombie, its legs missing and a trail of blood on the ground behind it, showing where it had been crawling before. He'd hate to think how it had come to lose its legs.

They rounded a corner ahead of them, Nick still moving at the forefront of the group, Devlan close behind him. Dean and Ben brought up the rear, checking every dark corner or doorway for anything to show its face to their guns. No-one said nothing, focused on getting to their destination in one piece, and the chance of possible salvation. The silence was beginning to irritate Dean, and he wanted to say something, anything to break it, but couldn't bring himself to speak for some reason. But something else would do what he failed to do.

CRASH!

In a flash, shards of freshly-broken glass were falling onto the group, who quickly moved out of the way of the raining glass and cast their gaze skywards to see what had caused the sudden occurrence.

"No fucking way," muttered Ben.

Zombies were falling towards them. It wasn't a particularly new occurrence to some of them, but these particular flesh-eaters had thrown themselves out of what looked like the 5th story windows, and were now plummeting towards the still-human survivors like heat-seeking missiles, all in their unending desire to feast upon human flesh.

"Holy-!" blurted Devlan, a second before he grabbed Nick by the shoulders and partly-dragged him into a dark corner out of the falling zombie's paths. Ben and Dean threw themselves in opposite directions as the first zombie made contact with the ground face-first. There was a sickening 'crunch' as it made contact, its neck and several other major bones snapping on impact. Dean stared with a kind of sick fascination at the oddly-contorted position the corpse was now lying in, before others came crashing down to earth in much the same fashion, each impact throwing up a similar crunching noise. Soon enough at least 5 fresh bodies were lying where the group had been stood before. The dive out the windows would've killed anyone human or otherwise, so it seemed pointless. Then again, if the bodies had made contact with the group, they would've probably been killed by the heavy impact as well.

"That it?" asked Ben, sounding disappointed. "I was hoping to smoke a few of those fuckers."

"Don't tell me you're actually hoping for us to be attacked?" asked Devlan in semi-disbelief as he stepped back into the open space of the passage.

"No, course not," replied Ben, sounding a little sheepish. "But those things killed most of my friends, and I'd like to repay that favour a thousand times over if I have to!"

As it would turn out, he would get that wish. For a bit longer at least.

That damned moaning sound which they had all come to detest cut through the air once again, and the group looked ahead to see more shadowy figures emerging from the passageway ahead of them. Dean aimed his Beretta towards the closest of them and snapped off two shots, seemingly guided by his natural instincts. The muzzle flash briefly exposed the features of an elderly man, his eyes devoid of any emotion, before the rounds smacked into his features and snapped his head back. He hit the floor a second later, just as the man's companions burst into a more eager pace, advancing with arms outstretched.

"Fuck this shit!" shouted a voice, but Dean couldn't place who it belonged to before a shotgun blast drowned out everything around it. A young female wearing jeans and a white shirt took the full brunt of a shotgun blast to the torso and was sent flying backwards, crashing into a few more zombified civilians and knocking them all to the floor.

"Don't waste your time here! Just go!" shouted Nick, loading a fresh round into his shotgun and making a move forward.

"Don't have to tell us twice," grunted Ben as he opened fire. His first shot tore through a pair of skulls, dropping the former owners to the ground with wet thuds. Devlan kept his rifle ready, but he adopted a more reckless approach to clearing the path in front of him, as he moved ahead of everyone else a short distance.

A short zombie approached the sniper, only to receive a blow to its face from the man's rifle, sending the monster spinning to the floor face-first. Another flesh-eater, another man in a hooded sweatshirt that was sodden with blood, received a spinning roundhouse kick to the stomach, sending it backwards into another two zombies. They all fell to the ground in a tangled heap, and the group took the time given to leap over them and move on.

Dean switched over to his S.P.A.S 12, the confined quarters suiting the weapon's design. Blood sprayed with each 12-gauge shell emptied, a lot of it going onto him, and he cursed at the fact his new clothes were even more ruined than before. A bony hand seemed to appear from thin air, reaching for his face with sharp nails. His shotgun currently empty and with time left for him to reload, Dean let it hang loose around his neck and he pulled out his Beretta once more. He fired 3 times into the space behind the hand, being rewarded as the limb suddenly drew back from him and something heavy hit the ground. He paused slightly to slam a fresh clip into his side-arm, just as he felt Ben grab him by the shoulder and drag him forwards a bit more.

"Don't be falling behind!" he cried, firing his own Beretta into the face of a man whose lower jaw was practically hanging off.

"Keep it together!" cried Devlan, as he drove the tip of his combat knife into the eye socket of yet another undead flesh-eater. He wrenched the blade free again with a slight struggle and moved on, as yet more zombies appeared. Dean couldn't tell where they were all coming from, almost as if they had just appeared out of the walls themselves

They moved on through a narrow passage, with barely enough space for them to pass down shoulder-to-shoulder. Luckily, there were no zombies in front of them, just the survivors from the initial ambush pursuing them from behind. They didn't bother to open fire on them as they focused all their efforts on moving on as fast as they could. Devlan was at the front of the group, supporting Nick who was beginning to struggle to walk again, and needed all the help he needed. Ben and Dean followed behind them, watching the pursuing zombies carefully.

"Just get us out of here," muttered Ben, the sweat rolling down his features.

"Amen to that buddy," replied Dean. "I'm fine out on the streets, but down here not much so. I can barely breath right now!"

"Stop dawdling!" shouted Devlan suddenly, the strain in his voice apparent. That was probably understandable, considering that he had to carry the burden of his own leader, whose body was trying to fight off being overwhelmed by the unnatural virus running through his veins.

"Shit!" cursed Dean, as he moved ahead to try and help the two mercs in anyway possible. He saw them stop for a short breather just ahead, in a small area that was relatively open, with a closed door to the right and several wooden pallets stacked up against the wall opposite the door. Nick had stopped, leaning heavily on his knees and coughing up what looked like a combination of blood and phlegm.

"That doesn't look good," said Ben sardonically as they approached, the U.B.C.S lieutenant having coughed up a huge mouthful of blood and mucus. The virus was beginning to get to him, wearing his body down until he was ripe to be turned into a zombie. He couldn't fight if off for much longer at this rate. Devlan reached a hand out to help Nick.

"I'm fine!" growled the retching mercenary, batting the sniper's hand away from him.

"You're not fine though!" scowled Devlan in response. "That damned virus is wearing you down, it's only a matter of time before-"

He was cut off when Nick was suddenly standing up straight to look the sniper dead in the eyes. "Don't you dare! I might not have long left on this plane, but I'm not about to just lie down and just accept it!"

Dean and Ben just stood by as the two exchanged words. Ben glanced nervously over his shoulder, feeling his stomach tighten as he could make out partial shadows on the wall of the corner behind them. They were of human shape, but swayed and danced like something very undead.

"We need to get going now," he said to his partner, not taking his eyes off of the wall and the shadows.

"I know," said Dean through gritted teeth, sounding highly agitated, "but try telling that to them." He indicated towards the two arguing mercenaries, who looked as though they had no intention of stopping their debate anytime soon.

"I'll be fine, just give me a damned minute," said Nick, leaning heavily on his knees.

"We don't have a minute!" shot Devlan back. "Those fuckers are right behind us! We can't keep stopping like this!"

"And you think you're in a position to give the orders, do you?" asked Nick suddenly, his voice low and deadly. It was something completely out of character to Ben and Dean, who had come to see Nick Johnson as a firm, but kind and reasonable leader in their time of knowing him. Maybe the stress of the whole situation, and the knowledge of infection, was beginning to get to him.

"Of course not, boss!" replied Devlan, looking more and more exasperated as beads of sweat rolled down his features. "I'm just thinking of all of us-"

That sentence was never finished, as the door just a few feet away from them was smashed off of its hinges and even more figures lunged out from the darkness. Before anyone could react in any way possible, three of them slammed into Nick, carrying him backwards with their momentum, while another nearly tackled Devlan to the floor. Dean and Ben could hardly process what was going on as Nick and the three zombies flew back and slammed into the wooden pallets, splintering the whole stack and seemingly vanishing through the wall.

"What the shit?!" cried Ben, as Dean heard the moans from behind and spun around to see the first of their undead pursuers round the corner behind the group of survivors. This zombie happened to be a tall male clad in only a pair of heavily soiled jeans, most of the flesh on the left side of his body seemingly burnt away into a charcoaled surface. It gave him a very eye-catching appearance, to say the least.

"The fuck's going on?" cried Ben as he ran forward to aid Devlan in his struggle with the zombie that had tackled him.

The sniper nearly gagged as putrid breath washed over his face and he struggled to get a decent grip on the neck of the rotten face that was coming at him with bared teeth. He was about to pass out from the stench just as another pair of hands grabbed the undead man by the chin and began to yank his head back from the sniper's nose. A few seconds later, there was a sickening crack as the zombie's head was wrenched to the side, revealing the form of Ben Campbell stood over the struggle, quickly tossing the zombie aside like trash, it's neck broken fatally.

"Fucking undead creeps!" he spat, offering a hand to the downed sniper.

"Thanks," gasped Devlan as he was yanked to his feet. Then he looked around to see if he could find Nick. "Boss!" he cried, running towards where he'd last seen him struggling with a trio of zombies. In his weakened state, Nick wouldn't stand a chance against three zombies..

"What the…?" he asked to no-one as his gaze shifted over a hole that had seemingly appeared in the wall where the pallets where a few seconds prior. It was about half the sniper's height and gave way to a sheer drop into pitch black. The smell of raw sewage hit him in the face as he tried to take a closer look. It was a large drain opening, unsealed as far as Devlan could see, and covered with the wooden pallets as a poor alternative until the proper covering had been returned or repaired.

"Boss!" he shouted into the dark void, but no response greeted him. "Boss!" he shouted again, louder this time, but still to no avail.

Ben joined him at the opening, shouting down into the pitch blackness. "Nick!" he shouted, as loud as he could.

"Boss, if you're down there, let us know, please!" urged Devlan again.

"I don't think we should stick around too long," advised Ben as he clamped a hand down on Devlan's shoulder. The sniper turned his head and followed where Ben's finger was pointing to see several zombies approaching them from where they had just come from, and Dean was stood only 15 feet away from them now, his Beretta drawn, but he wasn't opening fire straight away, perhaps as a means to conserve his ammunition until things got really bad.

"Any time there guys!" he shouted back, the nerves creeping into his voice.

"But we can't just leave him!" shouted Devlan as he looked back towards the drain opening. "I'm going down!" he suddenly announced, making a move towards the darkness, just as Ben had to drag him back from the brink.

"You're mad!" shouted Ben, practically in the sniper's face. "You have no idea what's down there, and you could get yourself killed going down! I don't want to leave him behind either, cause I wouldn't be here without his help, I'm sure. But the best thing you can do is to let him go!"

Devlan just stared hard at the filthy R.P.D cop in front of him. As much as he hated to admit it, he was right. After everything Devlan and Nick had gone through in their time in the U.B.C.S, he knew enough to know that Nick wasn't one to get too caught up in what had happened in the past of the present. He couldn't grieve over Nick now, or he'd get himself killed. There'd be plenty of time for that later.

"Fine," he said determinedly, getting to his feet and prepping his rifle. "Dean! Come on!" he then shouted, moving past Ben to keep following the alleyway ahead.

"About friggin' time!" cried Dean, sounding more than a little agitated. Looking up, he remembered he still had some hand grenades on him and removed one from his bandolier. Waiting for a moment, he shoved the object into the open mouth of the burnt zombie who was only a few feet away from him now. The monster let out a confused sound as Dean ripped the pin out of the object and shoved the burnt zombie backwards into its cohorts, before taking off after his companions. A few seconds later, there was a massive boom and something hot and wet splashed across the back of his shoulders.

Falling. That's all he was aware of, for what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was only a few seconds at the most.

It all shattered as he felt himself slam into something painfully hard, and heard at least two of his ribs snap on impact. A blinding pain shot through his entire torso, but for some reason he just about stifled the scream of pain he was thinking about uttering.

Luckily, when all of them fell, they had twisted and he'd happened to have landed on top of one of the zombies, cushioning the impact somewhat and killing the undead monster in the process. He was sure that he'd have been killed if he hadn't landed on it. But that still left two more zombies that were an immediate threat to him if he didn't react instantly.

He squinted his eyes and picked out the shape of a human with dead white eyes lunging for him out of filthy sewer water. He jabbed the barrel of the SIG Pro handgun he held towards the form's face and fired several times, not ever bothering to try and conserve what few rounds he had left. He must have fired at least 7 rounds into the zombie's face by the time it landed back in the water with a splash, its face practically decimated.

_With the condition his face was in before, I did him a favour…_

There was another rush of water to his left, and he turned to see the last zombie throwing itself towards him, teeth bared. He jerked the gun around to face it, primed to fire, his finger already pulling the trigger.

_Click._

He had no time to do anything, not even swear in response as the zombie's teeth closed around his left bicep. It felt like someone had taken a fistful of razor blades and driven them into his flesh in a blind rage. He said nothing in response, he didn't even scream in pain: if he'd broken his ribs, doing something like screaming at the top of his face would only kill him quicker as the broken bones lanced his internal organs as he squirmed about.

Instead, he only gritted his teeth as the zombie dug its teeth in more firmly and ripped a mouthful of flesh away from the bone. Then in the next instant, he drew his combat knife with his free hand and planted the blade through the top of the monster's skull. There was an awful crunching sound as the blade moved around, breaking through the skull as though it were paper. The zombie spasmed and twitched once, and then it fell backwards into the water, dead. The knife was dragged away with it.

Nick Johnson didn't move from his current position, propped up against a cold stone wall with a dead zombie lying somewhere underneath him. He felt the blood flow from his new wound, watched with morbid fascination as his life energy leaked into the water and formed intricate, swirling patterns. The only sound he could hear was his own pained breathing now, and other muffled sounds coming from above.

He glanced up towards the square of light somewhere above him, about 15 feet above him, where he had originally come from. He couldn't reach it, and even if he could, his broken ribs would stop him getting too far. He simply couldn't do anything in his present state now, except wait to die. He glanced left and right, only seeing identical stretches of sewer tunnel stretching off into the darkness. Lights on the wall illuminated the paths, but it would be a waste of time following either of them, he reckoned.

He heard someone calling out above him, but he only heard a muffled version of someone calling his name. He tried to say something in response, but only a mixture of blood and phlegm came shooting out his mouth instead, gurgling round his lips and down his vest front. That was a pretty good indicator that his lungs had been pierced by his ribs, and he didn't have long left to live. But that wasn't his greatest concern.

His new wound meant that if he wasn't before, that he was now fully infected by the T-Virus. And considering he was still weak from the old wounds he'd received before, he assumed that he only had a few minutes left at the most. With what little strength he had left, he reached into the top pocket of his utility vest with his left hand and drew out an object contained in a sealable plastic pocket. A single 9mm round.

He remembered the pact they had all made before the mission. That time seemed ages ago now. They promised that if any of them became infected with the virus, then they'd use that lone round to blow their own brains out and preserve what little of their humanity was left. Of course, he gathered that most of them were dead before they had to chance to follow that pact through.

"It'll never come to that," he remembered a member of Alpha Platoon joking at the time, but now Nick wished that the fool hadn't said anything now. Raccoon City had proved to have been too tough for the U.B.C.S to crack.

What a way to die, he thought. He became a soldier to help people, not to take life away, but that's what he ended up doing anyway. And in the Gulf, when he tried to stand up for his principles, and ended up being screwed over as a result, that just made him hate the world even more. Growing up, his view of the world was somewhat naïve: he always thought people were good, but now he knew they weren't. And Umbrella had shown the very worst of what humanity had to offer, creating a virus that could create hideous monsters that fed upon human flesh, and unleashing it upon this town. He'd be glad to leave this world.

Nick dropped the round into the chamber of his handgun and let it hang limply as his side for a moment. The voice that had called out before was gone now, but he now sensed what could have been a hand grenade going off, and even more dead moaning from the city's new inhabitants. He knew then that he wouldn't die as a zombie. He pulled the hammer back on the gun, loading the round into the chamber.

At the same time, he hoped that Robert Devlan would survive this mess and expose Umbrella for what they were. He had faith in the sniper, one of his best men and a loyal friend: he knew he could do it.

He quickly raised the pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger.

"Oh fuck no!"

They'd come to a dead end, in every sense of the word. The alleyway had terminated in a brick wall, about 10 feet tall, impossible for any of them to reach normally. Someone else had ran foul of the same place, as a pair of severely-chewed corpses were lying in the corners of the alley, flies buzzing around their rotting forms. The three humans looked about, trying to come up with a solution, even as they heard the never-ending moans following them around the corner.

"Oh shit," said Ben simply. "We're screwed."

"There's gotta be a way out of here!" cried Dean back, his Beretta getting clammy in his grasp.

"Doesn't look like it, I'm sorry to say," replied Devlan, with almost no tone in his voice, as though he was ready to give up after coming so far.

Dean saw the swaying shadows of their zombie pursuers against the wall opposite the dead end, and he swallowed hard. "Well we'd better think of something quick, before we're the appetiser!"

Devlan looked around, considering their options. They didn't have a lot to choose from: they could try going back the way they had just come from, and breaking through the zombies with what ammo they had left, but that would probably end very badly for them. They could stay where they were and stage a heroic last stand action, but that wouldn't last for very long either. He looked back at the wall, and guessed that they could probably make it over if they boosted one another.

"Here's a way," the sniper said finally as he positioned himself in front of the wall and stooped down, cupping his hands in front of him. "If someone gives the others a boost over-"

"Then the one doing the boosting gets left behind," finished Ben grimly. Dean looked back and forth between the other two, before he realised what was being proposed.

"Devlan, oh God don't!"

"We're not having this argument, not at a time like this," grunted the mercenary as he looked ahead of him. "Every member of the U.B.C.S is expendable: even Nick was, much as I hate to admit it. And that means I'm expendable as well."

"It doesn't have to be like that though!" argued Dean, becoming all too aware of the moans closing in from behind them and glancing over his shoulder momentarily. "You can show Umbrella that you're stronger than-"

"No, there's nothing for me outside of this city," retorted Devlan, giving Dean a firm look. "Even if I make it out I'm supposed to be a dead man. My family thinks that, and so do all my other friends. It wouldn't do much good for me to suddenly come back from the dead. It'd hurt a lot of people."

"Guys!" cried Ben, just as the first zombie appeared around the corner, one that was formerly a U.B.C.S member in its first life, except now it's olive green uniform was now saturated in blood, which was still pouring from several bite wounds in its shoulder and neck region.

"Don't argue with me!" shouted Devlan, sounding very agitated now. "Just go guys! It doesn't matter if I die in this place, but your survival's imperative."

"And why's that?" asked Dean, backing away as a few more zombies rounded the corner.

"Because someone has to expose those bastards for what they did here. You know that! Now I've already had some ties to the company so chances are even if I get out of here alive they'll track me down and have me killed without a second thought."

"But-"

"Don't argue!" snapped Devlan. "You know I'm making perfect sense. Now get going! Don't worry about me!"

Dean looked hard at the sniper, mulling over the man's words. He was right, in a way. It was highly unlikely that Umbrella would allow one of its hired mercenaries, meant to clean up messes like this, to escape the city alive, in case they were to brag about what the Corporation had been up…better to keep those dirty secrets a secret.

"Dean!" cried Ben.

His friend's voice snapped Dean back to reality, just as another walking corpse rounded the corner. He looked towards Devlan.

"Fine," he said firmly. "But if you're going to die, take plenty of those bastards with you."

"Now that's a survivor's answer," smiled Devlan, as he put his back towards the wall and crouched down. "Now get going!"

"You first Ben!" shouted Dean as he faced the approaching zombies.

"Bout friggin time!" shouted Ben in response, even as he fired his last explosive grenade round into the expanding horde, decimating most of them instantly. Then he tossed the empty launcher to the ground and ran towards where the U.B.C.S sniper was crouched down. Carefully, he perched himself on the man's shoulders, and Devlan straightened himself upright, allowing Ben enough purchase to grab onto the top of the wall and pull himself up.

BOOM!

Dean ejected another shell from his shotgun as the form of a middle-aged woman with her left arm missing crumpled away, most of her skull obliterated. He swivelled his aim and fired into the sheer mass of shambling flesh approaching him, blowing a few more of them back. He looked over his shoulder in time to see Ben scramble over the top of the wall and disappear from sight. There was a rustling of black bin bags as he landed on the other side.

"Your turn, Travers!" cried Devlan as he looked over toward where Dean was stood before reassuming the crouched position. The cop said nothing as he approached, taking some time to kick another zombie backwards.

"Good luck," muttered Devlan under his breath as Dean placed himself on the man's shoulders awkwardly and let himself get lifted up. A few seconds later, he managed to get a peek over the top of the wall, seeing Ben stood there, looking rather anxious.

"Hurry up man!" he urged, his Beretta drawn and in his hands.

Grunting, Dean pushed down with his feet and felt himself getting lifted up and over the wall fully. He caught himself on the brick and ended up falling sideways, landing in the remnants of a thorny scrub among a load of discarded bin bags at the base of the wall. Biting his lip, he dragged himself up, ignoring the flaring pain in his side.

"You OK?" asked a concerned Ben.

"I'm fine," grunted Dean, moving forward so he was stood next to his partner, before both of them looked back towards the wall they'd just scaled. A couple of seconds later, a clear plastic bag suddenly flew over the top of the wall and landed at their feet. It was the plastic bag Devlan had been carrying, the one containing the dog tags of all the fallen U.B.C.S members.

"Take that with you!" shouted Devlan from out of sight. "The least you can do is to give all of us a proper burial!"

"Bury the dogtags?" asked Ben as he examined the bag. As it turned out, it contained the dog tags of several U.B.C.S members, some of which the two cops had seen die, and some names that they didn't recognise.

"Almost forgot…" continued the disembodied voice of Devlan, seconds before something small and slightly flew over the wall and landed at their feet with a chink sound. It was another dog tag, inscribed with the name 'R. Devlan', along with the man's date of birth and his blood type.

"I'm as good as dead anyways," continued Devlan. "Now get going! Live!"

Ben looked down at Devlan's dog tag a little longer, before he dropped it into the bag and tucked it away into one of his jacket pockets. He nodded at Dean, and then he turned to move away down the new alleyway they were in.

Dean glanced back toward the wall they had just scaled over, and sighed deeply. "Good luck, Rob," he then said, even though the sniper wouldn't be able to hear him, and jogged away after Ben.

"Good luck guys…" muttered Robert Devlan, before he looked back at the advancing wall of zombies just ahead of him. He glanced over the line of pale, blank faces, his own face strangely resigned. A short while ago, each one of these people would have been their own unique character: now thanks to the T-Virus, they were all reduced to the same common denominator.

He pulled out a pair of hand grenades and readied them in his hands. Counting down from 3 in his head, he tore the pins out and prepared to throw them.

The sound of dual explosions going off behind them made them stop and turn, panting for breath.

Dean bit his lip and looked down at the ground, as Ben just looked on silently. He looked down at the ground, and then back up at Dean.

"They're all gone now," muttered Dean to himself. "They risked their lives to make sure we made it through…and now they're all dead. What a damned waste…"

"I won't forget them though," answered Ben, looking at his friend sternly. "They died for a good cause. It's not our fault they're dead: it's Umbrella's, as far as I know."

"Yeah," nodded Dean, not turning around as he spoke. His shoulders seemed to sag, but then he straightened up and turned to face his partner, his face set. "Come on, we can't wait around here much longer."

And so the two men set off once again, closer to their escape from the necropolis of Raccoon City.

The blades of the Blackhawk helicopter started to wind up, gathering speed until they were at their deafening full speed. A pair of army soldiers ran up to the open side hatches and jumped into the fuselage, readying themselves at the mounted machine guns at the side of the vehicle, as the pilots flicked various switches and buttons, preparing the craft for takeoff.

A short distance away, Cameron was stood in the shade of a large green tent as another soldier worked on strapping on a flight helmet and a bullet-proof vest onto his person. The vest was heavy on him, and the helmet restricted his vision somewhat and made him sweat, but he was told by Lieutenant Fletcher that both were necessary precautions.

"You just be careful, allright?" said Travis as he stood by, fidgeting in his spot. He was praying that his friend didn't get himself killed, such as by falling out of the helicopter in mid-flight. That would be fairly embarrassing, to say the least.

"Yes mom," joked Cameron, more as a way to calm himself then to make fun of his friend. "I'm not stupid, you know."

"It's understandable that he's concerned," said Lieutenant Fletcher, appearing at the side of the two friends, hands behind his back. "Just remember what I told you before, OK?"

"Um, the part about staying in the helicopter or the part apart keeping myself strapped in?" asked Cameron.

"Both."

"Yeah, no pressure then," muttered Cameron in response, shifting in his spot, as another army man, already decked out in flight helmet, approached and offered Fletcher a quick and smart salute.

"Cameron, this is Corporal Parkman, and he'll be making sure that you don't do anything stupid," said Fletcher, referring to Cameron by his first name for the first time since they'd met.

"Hey, just call me Mike," said the corporal, offering Cameron his hand to shake. He had piercing blue eyes, a young face (somewhere in his early to mid twenties), and a warm smile. That smile kind of reminded him of Ben, that smile that could make things feel better, even when they weren't going so well.

"Thanks Mike," replied Cameron, returning the gesture.

"OK, I think it's time you got going," said Fletcher suddenly, pointing over toward the helicopter, where the pilot was waving his hand in the air, indicating that they were ready to go.

"OK," breathed Cameron, reaching into his pocket and passing his cell phone to Travis. "Hold onto that, in case Lisa calls again. If she asks, tell her I've gone to try and find her brother."

"Will do," answered Travis as he tucked the phone into his own jeans pocket. By now the wind of the rotors was blowing up a stiff breeze, whipping about hair and clothing. "You just be careful man, you hear?"

"I hear you," smiled Cameron, nervously. "I won't be too long hopefully."

"It's time we got going now!" shouted Mike suddenly, over the whirling of the rotor blades. Cameron looked over at the waiting chopper and nodded in response.

"Get going! Go!" urged Travis. Cameron just nodded, before he and Mike were running toward the chopper, steadying themselves from the artificial winds, before hopping into the vehicle interior and strapping themselves into the straps that hung from the ceiling of the fuselage. Before the Blackhawk took to the air, Cameron looked out towards where Travis was still stood, the wind blowing at his hair. He flashed a quick thumbs up gesture, and Travis returned it.

The Blackhawk began to rise up, hovering above the ground for a few seconds, before it finally peeled away and began to fly away towards the city on the horizon, eventually becoming a tiny black dot against the darkening sky.

"Don't worry, Corporal Prarkman will make sure he comes back in one piece," said Fletcher suddenly, once the chopper had disappeared into the horizon.

"I'm sure he will," smiled Travis, finally turning away.

From a short distance away, Corporal Greene watched the whole scene unfold with little interest. Then once Fletcher and that jumped-up civilian were out of sight, he walked around to the far side of the storage container he'd been stood by, checking that no-one was following him or watching him. When he was sure that he was alone, he pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and keyed in a number, ringing it and waiting for an answer. It came after a few seconds.

"It's me," he said, before allowing the person on the other side to ask what he wanted.

"I think there might be a security risk with regards to the nature of the quarantine," he explained.

The other person asked him a few questions in rapid succession.

"Yesterday these two guys from Virginia turned up, came to find their friends, and Fletcher's taken a real shine to them for some reason….what's that sir? Yeah, they went into the forest by themselves, we had to bail them out…but they saw some of those Cerberus dogs, or whatever you call them. And Fletcher actually told them about the viral outbreak-"

He held the phone away from his ear as the person on the other end started shouting obscenities down the phone at him.

"Sir! Sir! Calm down, please!" he urged. "Fletcher still doesn't suspect a thing, but I'm only a Corporal, remember? He outranks me considerably. But I should be able to deal with things after the next recon patrol returns…"

More chatter from the other end of the line.

"Yes sir, no need to worry. I'll take care of them. I'll leave Lieutenant Fletcher to you."

And with that, Corporal Greene tucked the cell phone back into his pocket and stepped out from behind the container, heading back to check on the refugees.

**A/N: And it's over…again. And this chapter was even bigger than the last one! Oh wow.**

**Anyway, in other news, I saw Resident Evil: Degeneration recently, which is a decent movie, even if it seems a bit slow in the action stakes, but the CGI is first rate, and it's definitely worth the watch if you like the story elements of the RE series, since it refers to Resident Evil 5 at the end of it. **

**Also…speaking of my quick update, as of next week I'll be starting my new job, and so chances are I won't be able to work on this story as much as I'd want to, so I apologise for that, but I'll be writing whenever I get a chance to and whenever my creative juices are flowing. But in the meantime, I still appreciate any reviews and positive feedback I receive. **

**So until next time, R+R as usual please, and take care!**


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21: Hidden Depths

**September 28****th****, 1706 hours**

Darkness was coming, as the sun slipped away behind the imposing spectacle of the Arklay Mountains, the sky a burning orange colour. Below that, Raccoon City was still bathed in the glow of the multiple fires that had been raging unattended in its streets for the last few days now. Cameron took the overall scene in with his wide eyes, as the helicopter he was in approached the city limits, the Arklay Forest becoming a green blur below them. The soldiers manning the mounted machine guns swivelled the weapons back and forth, checking for any possible threat to them. But at this height, it was doubtful anything could get to them, unless it could fly itself. He was strapped into his seat, and holding on to a rail above him, to stop himself from falling out due to the vehicle's lurching, sudden motions.

Cameron looked straight ahead of him, breathing in and out in an effort to calm himself. He didn't have a problem with flying, but he still had a feeling of dread somewhere down in his stomach, as though he shouldn't have been going to Raccoon City in the first place.

"You allright?"

"Huh?" asked Cameron, looking up at Corporal Mike Parkman, sat across from him, a concerned look on his young face. "Oh, yeah, I'm fine. Just a little nervous, that's all."

"That's understandable," nodded Mike, looking out the side hatch to his right. "We may as well be flying into hell itself."

"You been into the city before?" asked Cameron, his voice raised. They all needed to pretty much shout over the roar of the chopper's rotor blades.

"Twice before," shouted Mike back. "It's a hell of a mess in there. Trust me, there hasn't been a toxic waste spillage in the city."

"I already gathered that, trust me," replied Cameron, thinking of what he'd seen in that tent behind the motel. "So, you're not a pilot then?"

"No!" shouted Mike, shaking his head. "I put in for pilot training though, and not with the army, special government operations missions, stuff like that!" The excitement in his voice was barely contained.

"Sounds good," replied Cameron, not particularly interested.

"But let's talk about that later, we're almost there," added Mike, pointing out of the side hatch.

Cameron looked outside again, and realised that they had practically reached the suburbs of Raccoon City; streets full of nice-looking houses with green gardens and friendly neighbours. At least in theory, anyway. Looking down at the first streets they were passing over, Cameron could begin to see indicators of the disaster engulfing the city.

Cars were overturned and ablaze in the street, houses had their windows and doors smashed in, all sorts of debris littered the streets and gardens-

And there were people. Not many, but he could see at least a dozen people in the street they were just above. They were all in one piece, but they were all wandering the street in a random, haphazard fashion.

Cameron pointed a finger down at the scene below him. "There are people down there!"

"I know," nodded Mike, grimly.

"Then why aren't we landing to help them? I though we came to-"

"We can't do anything for those people anymore, trust me," replied Mike.

Cameron stared in response to the Corporal's statement. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?" he asked, confused.

"Trust me, you'll see for yourself soon enough," replied Mike, finally making eye contact with Cameron. "I think it's better if you saw it for yourself."

They'd taken cover in an abandoned street café for the last few hours now, so they could rest up for the final hurdles ahead of them. They found some food and some bottles of water in the venue's fridge unit, and therefore hoped that it was safe to consume. After eating and drinking their fill, they decided it was time to set out at last.

"Let's get going," said Dean, as they emerged back out onto the abandoned street. The wind still nipped at their exposed skin and faces, and night was beginning to descend on the city. The automated streetlights (or at least, the ones that hadn't been ripped out of their fixed positions) were beginning to flicker on, one by one, as the minutes passed.

Their destination was just down the street to their left, about 50 yards away. It was a modern-looking glass building, that looked alien among the other buildings in this area of town, all constructed from brick and mortar, and all erected long before the glass tower had been. It was about 10 stories tall, emblazoned with the huge Umbrella Corporation logo on the facing side of the structure. The steel sign standing outside simply read 'Umbrella Administration Department'.

They stood outside the building, staring up at it. For all they knew the place could be infested with zombies, or Hunters, or ugly bug monsters…or even something new that they hadn't seen yet. It wouldn't hurt for them to be too careful when they went inside. They looked down both sides of the street as well: to their far left, the path was blocked by those police barricades that they had found themselves stuck behind beforehand; to their far right, the road had been blocked off by a city bus which had ploughed head-first into an apartment building, wedging it into the width of the street. A few bodies, impaled on broken glass, hung out of the shattered windows on the vehicle. Near that was the alleyway exit they had arrived by.

"Ready?" asked Ben suddenly, checking over his shotgun for what seemed like the tenth time within 2 minutes. He was nervous, Dean knew as much, but he was as well. Nick, God bless his soul, said a cure for the virus might lie in this place, but he wasn't 100% positive. If that was the case, then they were screwed, simple as. And if that was the case they wouldn't be able to leave the city either: they couldn't risk letting this virus leaving the city. He remembered that he had to convince Ben of this fact when they were resting up beforehand.

"What?!" his friend had exclaimed, when he told him what he was thinking. "We've lost everything we valued in this place, and you're saying if we can't be cured we can't leave the city?! Sorry Dean, but that's just bullshit!"

Dean had sighed before he started talking again.

"Ben…look around. If this virus gets outside the city there's a chance it'll infect other population centres. This could be repeated across the country, hell, across the entire world. Do you want this to reach Riverview? Where our families are?"

Ben grimaced before he replied. "No, I don't want it to…but dammit Dean, there has to be another way to do this."

"I wish there was buddy, I really do," sighed Dean, looking down at his Beretta that had been laid out on the table before them. Ben looked at the weapon as well, and realised what else could have been implied.

"Don't even think that man!" he said, worried. "No way I'm going to shoot you if it comes to that!"

"Well I hope you have a change of heart man," replied Dean, his voice low, "because I'd rather be dead than spend the rest of my life as one of those things. If you had to do one last thing for me, putting me out of my misery would be it."

Nothing else had been said about the subject. He didn't mind though, since Ben had been having a little trouble in dealing with things since they had originally met up, fighting that 'Nemesis' monster or whatever it was called. To be honest, he was surprised that he'd been handling the overall situation so well, and hadn't been reduced to a gibbering wreck long ago. There was a good chance countless other people in the city had been driven mad by what they had witnessed, and had chosen to take their own lives.

"Yeah, let's do this," Dean said eventually, arming his Beretta. The two friends approached the double doors of the entrance and pushed through them.

The spacious reception area possessed a marble floor, rather extravagant for a simple administration office. At the wall across from the doors was a large oak reception desk, complete with a desk lamp and several batches of paperwork on the top surface. The desk was flanked by a pair of artificial shrubs, and each side of the reception was lined with a number of comfy looking green couches, along with some glass tables holding up out of date magazines for waiting visitors to read.

"Pretty nice place," said Ben, looking around.

"Umbrella makes billions every year," stated Dean, walking up to the reception desk, "although I wonder how much of that came from peddling bio-weapons?"

"Who knows?" replied Ben, sounding as though he didn't care anymore. He looked around the desk area, and down the corridor that extended off to the right at the far end of the reception. There were a trio of elevators on the wall part way down the corridor, and at the far end there were other doors leading into the stairwell and into more offices. He walked up to one of the elevator doors and pushed the call button, but nothing happened. He pressed the button a few more times, but still nothing happened. He scowled in disappointment, as Dean was busy leafing through the most recent pile of paperwork he'd picked up.

It was all rudimentary stuff, various status reports and what not, but the last paper in the file caught his interest considerably.

_Evacuation Order for all Umbrella Inc. Staff_

_Important notice to all Umbrella staff: the city of Raccoon is in grave danger, so for your safety, all Umbrella employees are ordered to expect a phonecall from Head Office, detailing your exact evacuation details. Departments will be contacted in their order of importance: research and development departments have the highest priority, with all administration and distribution departments expected to be the last areas to be evacuated._

_Please advise all staff to remain calm during this period, and to not call Head Office at all: all details regarding evacuation will be made available in due course._

_Umbrella Board of Directors, 23__rd__ September 1998._

The document was dated at least 3 days before everything turned to shit in the city. Did that mean Umbrella knew fine well what was coming? Maybe this was a way to try and recoup their losses before the disaster came? If so, it showed they only cared about saving their own employees and no-one else. He screwed the paper up in disgust and threw it away from him. Then he walked over to where Ben was messing with the elevator controls, to no avail.

"Elevators aren't working?" he asked, simply. Ben nodded.

"The power's probably out," he observed, looking down the corridor. "I think we should get it back on, to make it easier to move around the building."

"What about this elevator though?" asked Dean, pointing towards the middle elevator in the set. The elevator he referred to had reinforced steel doors, and no controls to speak of, just a card reader to the left of the door. If this place held any secrets, then it would probably be through those doors.

"Remember what Nick said about their being a hidden facility under this building?" asked Ben. "Maybe this is the entrance to that place, but we need some special key to get through, obviously."

"And that could be anywhere in this place," sighed Dean, looking towards the stairwell door at the far end of the corridor. "That's a lot of ground to cover, either way."

"Which is why we should get the power back on, so we can take the elevators and save us using the stairs all the time," reasoned Ben.

"OK, fine," replied Dean, "but that means we need to go into the power room…and that wasn't so pleasant last time I did something like that."

"Why's that?" asked Ben, curiously.

"It's a long story," was the reply. "Come on, let's get a move on."

The two of them advanced down the corridor, passing by the stairwell door, and to another door that had the familiar black and yellow power sign on it. Dean walked on a bit further, peering through a door leading into one of the offices further down the corridor. The lights were all out, and it was almost pitch black inside. He didn't fancy going into that room with the lights out, lest something was lurking inside. He wondered if zombies could see in the dark, but he gathered it would be better not to take any chances. He returned to the power door room.

Ben pushed the door open half-way, and it was pitch black inside as well.

"Great," he muttered, "now what?"

_Crack!_

Dean removed something from his side pack and gave it a quick flex, before tossing it into the room. It started to emit a warm, green light, which quickly cut through the darkness and bought the room's features into view: rows of transporters, with a ceiling of mesh grating above them. Ben looked back at Dean, surprised.

"Glow sticks," said Dean as he tucked a few spare rod-like objects into his pack again. "Good for a few minutes or so."

"Where'd you-?"

"I'll tell you later," Dean said suddenly, already moving into the room and around the corner, gun raised. Ben followed after him quickly.

They moved around the corner, finding a human shape propped up against the wall across from them, his head lowered and a gun in his hand. At the sound of footsteps, he slowly raised the gun and prepared to fire.

"Don't shoot!" hissed Ben, moving forward. "We're human!" The man seemed relieved as he let the gun drop to the floor, sighing deeply. Dean cracked another glow stick and dropped it near to the man's feet, so they could see him better. His hair was a sandy-blonde colour and his skin was pale, unnaturally so. He was dressed in simple black uniform with the Umbrella logo stamped on the shoulders. Dean guessed he might have been a security guard of some sort.

"Didn't think…anyone was…still alive," the man said, his voice low and very weak. Only then did the two police officers see that the man's free hand was clutched to his stomach, where blood was gradually seeping from a 12 inch horizontal gash that looked as though he were about to be cut in half. Ben cursed when he saw the wound. The man was probably close to dying already.

"Don't try to move," urged Dean, crouching down next to the man. "What happened here?"

"Donovan and his staff…sealed themselves below ground…not long ago," sighed the man, his eyes lolling in his head. "I…barely got out…could still hear the screaming…"

"Who's Donovan?" asked Ben, crouching down on the opposite side of the seriously wounded guard.

"He's…supervisor for the…storage facility," the dying man breathed, each word taking a superhuman effort to force out. "The one…below us…take the emergency elevator down…need a…Level 5…key card…"

"We need to get the power back on," urged Dean, realising only now that he'd been crouching in the man's blood, that had pooled below his seated form. "How do we do that?"

"Can't use…this room," the man whispered, staring at the ceiling. "I sabotaged…the power room…to keep those…demons below…ground…"

Dean and Ben looked up at the control panel above the man. It had been ripped open with force, and the exposed wires had been severed with a set of pliers, snipped cleanly or torn apart. They'd need specialist tools to repair this kind of damage.

"Damn it!" cursed Ben.

"Is there another way to turn the power back on?" asked Dean, hopefully. "A secondary generator, maybe?"

"There's a back-up generator…out in the loading bay," muttered the guard, his eyes closed now. "Go outside…and left down the street…but don't know…why…you want to…go down there…"

"We don't have a choice," explained Ben, which was pretty truthful it had to be said. "We've come too far to give up now."

The man looked around a bit more with his closed eyes, before he suddenly erupted into a coughing fit, spraying blood onto the ground next to him. Ben and Dean jumped up at the sudden movement.

"Then watch…out…for the red demons…they can…hear…you…"

Then the man's head slumped to the side, and he stopped breathing. He was dead.

Dean picked up the guard's weapon quickly and checked it over. It was bone dry, and he had no extra ammunition on his person, so god knows what he would have done if a real threat had walked into the room.

"What the hell did this to him?" asked Ben, indicating the man's wound. "It looks like someone with a machete cut him open!"

"Somehow I doubt that," muttered Dean, thinking about the crimson zombies and those 'Hunters' they had encountered previously. "He said something about red demons though…could be those crimson zombie things."

"Or something else," murmured Ben, low and foreboding.

"Look, whatever it is, we'll have to deal with it," said Dean, standing up and heading for the door. "Right now, we need to find that back-up generator, because I don't want to be wandering around in the dark with those things."

Ben nodded in agreement, as he followed after his friend.

The chopper was over central Raccoon City now, and the destruction here was even more prevalent. Streets were choked by massive car pile-ups or overturned trucks and buses, entire apartment blocks were ablaze, windows were smashed out, light poles were knocked over: it was like the apocalypse had come to Raccoon City.

And the streets below were practically choked with people now, hundreds of them at least, wandering around aimlessly. Some of them had gathered in large groups, but most of them minded their own business. Cameron looked down at them nervously. What did Mike mean by them being beyond help?

"This is the U.S military," shouted Mike suddenly, talking down at the rooftops and streets below them via a megaphone. "If there are any survivors down there, please make yourselves known, and we will extract you to safety." He clicked the megaphone off and waited for several seconds. Nothing happened. Then he clicked it back on and repeated the same phrase as before. "This is the U.S military…"

"So um, how many can this thing carry?" said Cameron, talking to one of the gunners next to him.

"Not including the crew and you and Mike, 9 others," shouted the man back, observing the scene below via his weapon's iron sights. "We can't really fly a Chinook into the city, there's very little space to land one of those, so we have to make do with what we've got!"

9 people, mused Cameron. The first nine people to be pulled onto the vehicle would have the pleasure of being extracted to safety. He wondered how many people exactly were still down there, holed up in the buildings, waiting to be rescued. He turned his head, and then sat up when he saw something in the street over. There was a pillar of bright green smoke issuing from the middle of the street over from the one they hovered above, reaching into the sky. He didn't consider himself an expert of military protocol, but he was pretty sure green smoke was a sure sign of someone in trouble.

Cameron turned and grabbed Mike's shoulder, pointing over to the unusual sight. "Look!"

Mike turned, and stopped when he saw the green smoke tower, his eyes wide in surprise, before he turned to the pilot. "Bring us around!" he screamed, loud as he could. The Blackhawk wrenched around, nearly throwing Cameron out of the side hatch, and hovered over the street. There was a figure in the street below, standing next to the smoke tower, waving his arms frantically and shouting at the top of his voice.

"Get out the way!" shouted Mike through his megaphone. "We'll set her down!" The man in the street moved to the side of the road, as the chopper descended, its rotors blowing the smoke tower out of shape and stirring up the debris on the road. Eventually, the vehicle touched down on the road surface, rocking slightly as it made contact. The two gunners swivelled their weapons here and there, searching for threats. Each one covered a different direction of the street.

Mike waved his hand frantically as the mystery man from before re-emerged. It was a man in his late thirties, dressed in the light blue shirt and black pants of the R.P.D, except it was largely covered in dried blood now. He had short dark hair and grey-green eyes, and he was holding a handgun in his right fist. Before he approached the chopper, he turned to the shattered remnants of an electronics store behind him, and waved his hand. Then other people started to emerge from the shadows.

There were three of them at least: two young females, perhaps in their early twenties, one of them a red-head and the other with raven black hair tied back in a ponytail; and another man, in his mid thirties, one of his forearms bandaged up, and dressed in a smart blue suit, now crumpled from wear and stained with blood. The man and one of the females were carrying another man, a wounded teenager, between them on a makeshift stretcher made from some planks of wood lashed together with thick rope.

"Geez," muttered Cameron, as Mike unstrapped himself and moved over to help the survivors get aboard.

"Help me!" he shouted to the gunners, who left their mounted weapons in order to drag the stretcher onboard.

"He's unconscious, but he'll live!" shouted the bloody police officer. "Hurry up, before more of those damned things come!"

Cameron turned away from the scene and looked down the road, away from them. He almost jumped when he saw the people in the middle of the street, at least four of them, staggering towards the helicopter. All of them were covered in blood, and at least one of them was limping badly, dragging one of his legs behind him.

"Hey guys! There's more back here!" he shouted, but everyone was too busy with saving the initial group of survivors to notice his cry. Cursing to himself, Cameron unstrapped himself instinctively and leaned over out of the side facing the new arrival of wounded survivors. The first one, a man in a buttoned-up blue shirt and grey pants, was about 15 feet away now, and he was reaching his arms out, as though waiting to be pulled into the waiting chopper.

"Come on!" shouted Cameron, reaching his own arms out. "I'll pull you in!"

The man took a few more steps toward the grounded chopper, and looked up at his intended saviour.

Cameron froze.

The man's exposed skin was grey and clammy, and covered in countless cuts and wounds. There was a huge scar on his right cheek in particular, that exposed the teeth, which were blackened and stained with red fluid. Where the man's left shirt sleeve was torn away, the flesh was the same colour as his face, and the bones could actually be seen about halfway up the limb, where it looked as though the flesh had been eaten away by some wild animal in a feeding frenzy.

_No way anyone should still be conscious after taking that much punishment…_

He found himself drawn to the man's eyes: pure white orbs, with no sign of any tangible emotion behind them, and the barest trace of the dark pupils. The man's mouth opened, and a long, tortuous moan escaped, a sound that sent chills down Cameron's spine. It was a sound that was echoed by the other 'people' standing in the street.

He looked past the man, at the woman with long, curly blonde hair coming up behind him. The blue stripy sweater she wore was slick with gore and something else he couldn't identify, and her dark blue jeans were ripped and torn, exposing areas where something or someone had torn away the flesh. Her face was blank and expressionless, even though part of her skull had been cracked open, exposing her brain tissue to Cameron's sight.

Next to her was another man, a tall, bony-looking person wearing the overalls of a car mechanic, stained black with oil. His left leg was twisted badly out of place, but he kept walking, dragging the crippled limb behind him. Also, his lower jaw and his tongue were missing.

Cameron looked around the street. Even more 'wounded' people were emerging from dark alleyways and from behind wrecked vehicles, moaning in unison and approaching the grounded helicopter. They were all dressed differently, usually in casual civilian clothing, but he saw at least one dressed like a police officer.

All of them had grey skin and empty white eyes. Most of them were caked from head to toe in dried or fresh blood too.

He simply stared, wide-eyed in horror, even as Mike grabbed a hold of him and pulled him back into the chopper, a pistol in his hand.

"Stay away from them!" he yelled into Cameron's face. "They're crazy!"

He thrust the barrel of the gun toward the man in the blue shirt, as he reached his arms out, about to grab onto the chopper and pull himself in. He kept moaning in that haunting manner.

BANG!

The shot snapped the man's head back and knocked him onto his back. He flopped as he hit the ground, and didn't move again. Even as Cameron flinched from the sudden gunshot, Mike adjusted his aim and shot both the women and the mechanic with the missing jaw that were coming up behind the first man. Both were put down with perfect headshots.

"What are you doing?!" cried Cameron in horror, even as one of the gunners took up position behind his weapon, and thumbed the trigger. The booming retorts of the heavy gun nearly deafened Cameron, amplified in the chopper's fuselage area. The weapon's tracer fire screamed down the open street, knocking down several of the crazy people who were staggering towards them. Some of them literally exploded as the powerful rounds struck them with terrifying force.

He saw one get spun of his feet by the bullet impacts, but as he hit the ground he was trying to get up within seconds, his rib cage blasted open by the impact. Another one, a woman in business clothes, was hit in the kneecap and the entire joint exploded in a shower of blood and bone chippings. She hit the tarmac face first, but she was soon dragging herself forward with her hands, trailing blood behind her from her ruptured kneecap. She moaned constantly as she looked up, blood dribbling out of her mouth and down her chin.

"What the hell's going on?" muttered Cameron to himself, as he watched events unfold, even as the other mounted machine gun opened up. It was like a scene straight out of a horror movie. He shook his head as he looked out the opposite hatch of the helicopter, were even more people with blank faces and covered in blood staggered up the road towards them. Among them was a young girl, barely 8 years old, her flower print dress saturated in red liquid. She wore the same blank expression as the other people around her. Tracer fire cut most of them down, but even more were massing further down the road.

The young man on the stretcher was pushed onto the helicopter, closely followed by the two young women, their expressions fearful.

"OK, everyone's loaded up!" shouted one of the gunners, breaking off from his firing.

"Get us out of here, now!" screamed Mike, as he fired again. His bullet hit a construction worker in the forehead, dropping him like a sack of potatoes.

The chopper started to lift up, leaving the street behind, as the warped people still standing reached up after the vehicle, moaning their disturbing song. Cameron peered down into their empty white eyes, and felt his stomach contract. He pulled himself back into the vehicle, and looked around at the new arrivals they had just picked up.

"What's going on?" he asked, rhetorically. "What the hell was wrong with those people? They looked like dead men walking!"

"That's probably because they are, good sir," said one of the civilians who had just been dragged into the chopper, the man in the crumpled blue suit. Looking closely, Cameron could see that he had a neatly trimmed beard, brown eyes, and possessed a British accent. He seemed very upper-class, but respectable. "The dead have risen in Raccoon City and are now wandering the streets seeking to make everyone else who's alive join them."

"It might sound ludicrous, but he's probably right," added one of the young women, the one with the black hair. She was dressed in a white shirt that was stained with drops of blood, and black dress pants, and strangely enough, white sneakers, that looked at odds with the rest of her outfit. The other female present had vibrant red hair in a short bob style, along with shining blue eyes, and was wearing faded blue jeans, black sneakers and a red shirt. The front of her shirt was splattered in dark bloodtsains…hell; all of them were covered in blood in one way or another.

"You can say that again," wailed the R.P.D officer, dropping his weapon onto the floor of the chopper and holding his hands to his head. "Those freakin' zombies are everywhere!"

"Did you just say zombies?" asked Cameron, in suspended disbelief. "Zombies don't exist!"

"Then what else would you call them?" asked Mike, irritated, from nearby. "Next time we go down, try not to do anything stupid, you hear? If anything happened to you, Lieutenant Fletcher would string me up by my armpit hair!"

Cameron bristled in annoyance, but said nothing more. He promised not to do anything stupid when he was on his little trip, but he'd done exactly that if trying to help people that were clearly beyond help. But what the hell was that, he wondered? Those people should have been dead. They were still walking, even when those heavy machine guns blew their chests wide open. No-one should have been able to survive wounds like that, unless they were under the influence of heavy-duty narcotics-

Then he thought a bit more, and realised that it was probably due to that virus Fletcher and the others told him about. Was the entire population of the city reduced to those 'zombies', as Mike had referred to them? His mind needed time to process everything he had witnessed recently, but he didn't have that luxury right now. He had to stay alert if they ended up making another landing. Reaching out like to help people get in, that could have ended very badly for him and the others concerned.

He looked back up at the survivors assembled in the helicopter. He looked at the man in the bloodied R.P.D uniform, looking more closely at the man's face, and he finally managed to recognise him through the grime and dirt of his face.

"Lenny?" he asked, genuinely surprised to see a familiar face. Lenny Bristol was one of the longer serving officers in the R.P.D, and a man he'd met a few times in the past, when he and Travis had come to visit previously.

"Cameron?" asked Lenny, finally looking up from having his face buried in his hands. "W-what the hell are you doing here?"

"You know him?" asked the British man, confused.

"Yeah, he's a friend of a couple of my colleagues," explained Lenny.

"It's a long story why I'm here," replied Cameron, "but basically me and Travis came here to visit again, but then we heard something had happened in Raccoon City…but I didn't think it'd be this bad!"

"You came here to find Dean and Ben?" asked Lenny, sounding almost in disbelief.

"Yes, we did," sighed Cameron, losing patience. "Do you know where they are?"

Lenny stared out the side hatch before he replied. "I saw them down at the barricade on Raccoon Street two days ago," he said, a far-away look in his eyes. "Those things just rolled over us like we were nothing…"

"And Dean and Ben?" asked Cameron hopefully.

"I don't know!" snapped Lenny, harshly. "We fell back to the R.P.D, but I got separated from everyone else…been holed up waiting to be saved since."

"Jesus," muttered Cameron, staring down at the scenes of destruction down below, as the helicopter swung around again to head across to the city's west side. "So most of the R.P.D was killed?"

"Looks like it," nodded Lenny. "Hell, I might be the only one left alive."

Cameron felt his heart sink to his stomach. The entire R.P.D had been practically wiped out, according to Lenny's testimony. And from seeing things by himself, he was inclined to believe him. The streets were a mess, hundreds of those…'things' were wandering about-

The apocalypse _had_ come to Raccoon City.

They exited the building and headed left down the street, finding the opening road into what should have been the building's loading dock. The smell of decay and split blood reached their nostrils even as they started to walk down the road. They both readied their weapons as they rounded the corner into the spacious loading bay.

A large truck with the Umbrella logo emblazoned upon the side was parked in the far corner of the space, its back doors thrown open. The ventilated corpses of two Hunters were lain out on the tarmac just outside the back doors, and a third one was proper up against a dumpster not far away from the truck, the top of its head taken off by a point-blank shotgun blast. At the far side of the area was a concrete ramp that led up to a large set of double doors and a large freight elevator entrance.

In the middle of the yard though was the most arresting sight. Another massacre had taken place here, though not to the extent as they had witnessed back before when they were attacked by that mob of Hunters. About half a dozen ruptured bodies of security personnel lay on the ground, surrounded by weapons and a carpet of empty shell casings, killed where they had stood. Several more zombies were also present, most of them crouched over the dead bodies, feasting upon them, while a few more just stood around, swaying on the spot and staring straight ahead of them.

Dean watched with morbid curiosity as four zombies crowded over a single body with its belly shorn open, tearing at the flesh, ripping away shreds of skin and chewing at it contently. One of them ripped out a length of small intestine with its blood-stained fingers and started to pull bits off with its teeth, as though it were eating corn on the cob.

Ben gagged at the sight, covering his mouth up. He turned to Dean, and they shared a nod, which showed their intentions towards these dining monsters. Ben raised his Beretta and out a bullet in the back of the head of the zombie that was chewing on the intestine. It was pitched forward, over the corpse it had just been feeding from, even as the other feeding monsters rose up at the gunfire. Three more had been shot dead by the time the other zombies in the area were approaching the two humans.

Dean and Ben moved in opposite directions, gunning down any zombie that approached them. It was brutally effective, the manner in which they dispatched the former humans, as though they were nothing at all. Considering everything else they had lived through during their experiences in the city, zombies were hardly a substantial threat to them anymore. Ben didn't even show any kind of emotion as he set his sights over the face of a young man with one of his eyes gouged out, and fired, dropping him instantly. His next victim was a dark-haired woman with the flesh peeling away from her face, who he killed with a shot between her eyes.

Dean shot a zombified Umbrella security guard dead, and then switched his aim to another male zombie. At least, he assumed it was a male: the creature was so badly decomposed he couldn't tell what gender it was supposed to be, facial-features wise. Still doesn't matter, he thought, as he fired, putting it down like a sack of potatoes. After that was another male, dressed in a long white lab coat and with dark black hair, his chest cracked open to expose his heart to plain sight.

BANG!

The zombie fell with a shot to its left temple.

A few seconds later, the last zombie fell, and the air fell silent once more. Ben and Dean reloaded their weapons, as they searched over the scene in the yard. Most of the discarded weapons they found were bone dry, but they still found several shotgun shells they divided up between them, and Ben retrieved a functional AK-47 assault rifle from the slumped form of a blonde security guard, along with two full magazines for it, and both men acquired a few handgun clips. Dean moved around to the back door of the crashed truck, peering inside. Several cages were inside the truck's cargo bay, all of them torn open with considerable force. The ruptured corpse of another security guard, his guts ripped open and lying with his back against one of the side walls, was also inside. A broken Glock 18 handgun lay next to his right hand, and he clutched a clipboard in his left hand. Dean prised it out from the man's stiff fingers and read over the document.

_Delivery Order __36-A, 26__th__ September, 1998_

_Contents: 8x MA-121 'Hunter Alpha' units_

_Security level: Maximum_

_Hunter units are usually transported in secret through the sewers, but due to investigation efforts moving into the sewers of Raccoon City, we have had to resort transporting many of our units via transport trucks, which of course offers all kinds of risks should the units escape suddenly. That is why the usual security measures should be stepped up when transporting Hunter units throughout the open street. At least three guards will accompany each shipment of Hunters, and are instructed to keep the electrified doors activated at all times. And of course, utilise the utmost caution: these are our most viscous creations, after all._

_Umbrella Research Department_

"Hey, look at this," said Dean, waving the document in the air, as Ben approached, having finished searching over the rest of the loading yard. "Looks like they were moving these things through the streets; seeing as how the city was probably already doomed."

Ben shook his head. "Well maybe this is where the ones we fought before came from," he observed. "Or some of them at least…this order's only for eight of those things."

"Well whatever, we need to find that power room, first thing's first," replied Dean, throwing the paper document away from him casually, even as Ben was already pointing up to a pair of double doors marked with the familiar power symbol, in the far corner near to the closed freight elevator. They approached briskly, pushing the doors open with little force. The tiny room was barely big enough for both of them to stand inside, as most of the space was taken up by the grey wall of circuit boxes, levers, and brightly-coloured wires that crossed this way and that.

"So…which one do we pull first?" asked Ben, warily.

"I say we just flip them all and see what happens," answered Dean, already reaching for one of the levers.

"Well what if we end up blowing ourselves to kingdom come?" said Ben suddenly, stopping his friend from doing anything.

"Relax, I doubt that would happen just turning on the power," retorted Dean, though Ben still didn't look fully convinced. Though Dean still raised the levers in sequence, one by one.

There was a distant humming sound, and indicator lights started to flash up in rows, indicating that power had been restored to the various floors and areas of the building, from floor lighting to elevator power and appliance power sources.

"Well that was easy," announced Dean, smiling a little, and then looking at Ben's rather uneasy expression. "What's up?"

"I don't know," was the reply, "I just have a really bad feeling about all this for some reason…"

"Hey, whatever's in there, we'll take care of it. We made it this far, didn't we?"

One by one, the rows of overhead lighting in Umbrella's admin department burst into life, lighting up the rows of office cubicles and desks that took up the floor space. At first glance, it looked as though the T-Virus was yet to ravage this particular part of the city: paperwork remained on desks undisturbed, computers started to boot up as though it were just another day, and the clocks on the wall continued to tick down to the end of shift.

But there were still some signs of the horrendous violence engulfing the little town: on the 4th floor, deep red streaks lead down the main cubicle isle and up to one of the far sheltered offices by the far windows, while on the 7th floor the front of the elevator doors were splattered with blood, including several smudged hand-prints.

There was a loud _ping! _As the elevator reached this floor, the place it was intended to be going when the power was cut short. The doors slid open, and at least a dozen former humans shambled out, searching for any kind of food in the vicinity. After all, the desiccated corpse of the young man propped up in the corner of the elevator hadn't lasted very long at all with at least seven things feeding off of him. Most of the creatures were dressed in typical office clothes, white shirts with black pants or skirts for the females, and dark coloured shoes, though a few zombies were former security guards, their black uniforms sodden with blood and other vital juices.

Practically every zombie still bore the Umbrella emblem though, either on their name badges or on their shoulders, in the case of the security guards.

They shambled down the empty aisles, moaning in an ethereal manner, the sound running throughout the entire building.

Back in the building foyer, Dean and Ben worked on dragging a pair of the seating couches in front of the heavy glass doors, making sure they were positioned in a way that meant the doors would catch in an awkward manner if someone tried to push through them. They doubted zombies would be smart enough to pull the doors open, anyways.

Speaking of which, they had started to gather again. Only a few had appeared to begin with, but then more started to filter out of the alleyways and empty buildings in the street, seemingly drawn out by the knowledge that still-living humans were holed up inside the big glass building with the Umbrella logo on it. By now the first few were at the doors now, pressing themselves up against the glass, beating at it with their hands, leaving bloody smears as they tried to break through in vain. Dean and Ben just stood in the foyer, staring at the creatures as they slowly gathered.

"How do you think they do it?" asked Dean eventually.

"Do what?" replied Ben, not taking his eyes off of the horde.

"How they seem to know where people are holed up?" explained Dean. "That street was practically abandoned when we first came here, nothing followed us: and yet here they are."

Ben was silent for several seconds, as he tried to remember something he had seen on the Discovery Channel a long time ago, something about instinctive behaviour. These zombies were supposed to be thick as pig excrement, but remembering what the U.B.C.S members had told them about what the virus did to them, he thought he had a theory prepared.

"Maybe they're acting off of some basic instinct," he said, eventually, staring into the face of a blonde woman with most of her teeth missing and bloody spittle dripping down her chin as her mouth moved in slack yawning motions. "Something deep in their brain's telling them to come here…like they did in the past."

Dean nodded slightly, Ben's theory making some sort of sense to him. But even so, staring at the line of decaying bodies lining up outside, it told that there really was no turning back now: they had to keep moving forward and hope that they could find a way out to relative safety. He knew these zombies were the cause of some virus created by Umbrella, and that they were a definite danger to the two of them now, despite whomever they had been in the past.

"Come on, we should get started."

"What? In finding that key card?" asked Ben, as the two of walked up to the elevators once again.

"Well it's the only way we can get into that," replied Dean, pointing at the reinforced elevator doors in-between the other two elevators. "And that should take us to where we need to be…and hopefully to a way out of the city."

"Just like that?" asked Ben, unconvinced.

"No…not 100% sure, but it's better than going back out there," said Dean, pointing back toward the line of zombies gathering outside. The dull thuds of them beating their hands against the glass resonated through the foyer. Ben shivered as the noise grew in intensity.

"OK, fine then," he said after a few seconds. "So how do we do this?"

Dean paused for a second, surprised at how much Ben had been deferring to him lately, but then he quickly spoke up once again. "I start at the top floor, and you start from the ground floor, and we work our way down, or up in your case, and we meet again in the middle. Check everywhere for that card, in the big offices, anywhere you can think of."

"Fine by me," replied Ben, raising his newly-acquired AK-47. "I'd prefer to stay together…but splitting up gets the job done quicker."

"OK then," said Dean, nodding. "We should get going then," he continued, hitting the call switch for one of the public elevators. The elevator pinged open after several seconds, but Dean recoiled when he glanced at the scene inside the cramped space.

Blood was sprayed up all four walls and even on the ceiling, as the remains of a man's body lay in the far corner. The limbs had been so badly eaten away that the bones beneath were exposed, and the belly had been ruptured open, the guts and other internal organs eaten away in a brutal fashion, something only a zombie feeding frenzy could achieve. Even the head had been torn away, and was nowhere in sight. Even after everything they had seen so far in this damned city, Dean and Ben had to tear their eyes away from the gruesome sight.

"Holy shit," gasped Ben, gagging from the strong copper stench of blood. "No-one deserves to die like that!" After a few seconds, the doors closed on their own accord, and the copper stench faded away.

"Got that right," nodded Dean, breathing through his mouth. "Think I'll use the other elevator." He pressed the call button for the other elevator, which arrived almost instantly. When the doors open, it was thankfully clean of any blood or other type of violence. He sighed in relief.

"OK, I'll see you soon, hopefully," he then said to Ben, stepping inside and hitting the button for the top floor. Just as the doors were about to close, Ben grabbed the door and forced them open again.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful, you hear?" said Ben, sincerely.

"You too," smiled Dean, as the doors closed up.

The Blackhawk hovered over Raccoon City's west side now, above the zoo, where more contrails of smoke issued from the wrecked vehicles outside, stirred by the beating of the steel rotors. Nothing even remotely human stirred below, even as Mike shouted out his phrase via his megaphone.

"So what the hell happened?" Cameron could see that the survivors were in mood to talk, but he wanted someone to talk. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the dead faces and white eyes of those things he had encountered before, and he'd rather not have to relive those memories.

"Happened with that?" asked Lenny, staring out the side hatch.

"Happened with the city," replied Cameron, curiously. "When did everything go-"

"Go to hell?" asked the young red-headed girl, locking eyes with Cameron. Hers were thick and heavy with tears, probably from the painful memories she had just relieved again. "It was about 2 days ago: the morning started off as normal when I went to class, but then in the afternoon…there was screaming outside, and those things were attacking my friends-"

She stopped suddenly, pausing to wipe a solitary tear away from her eye. The British man put his hand across her shoulders in an attempt to comfort her, but it wasn't working by the looks of it.

"Trust me," he then said, making eye contact with Cameron, "you can't possibly imagine what we've been through these last few days."

"I never said I did," replied Cameron, honestly.

"Those monsters," whispered the black-haired woman, still looking out the side hatch, "they came out of no-where. One second everything was fine, and then the next, my colleagues were screaming as they eaten alive." She sobbed and lowered her head, before quickly raising it again, wiping her tears away and looking over at Cameron. "So, what did you say your name was again?"

"Uh, Cameron," replied Cameron, uneasy. "Me and my friend Travis came here to visit some friends…but of course things had taken a turn for the worst-"

"You can say that again, sir," replied the British man, snidely, even though he probably didn't mean it.

"He doesn't mean it," said the raven-haired girl, shaking her head and looking over at her companions. "We've all been through a lot."

Cameron just nodded a little before he continued. "We got sick of waiting around though, and so Travis suggested we try to talk a walk through the forest to try and get into the city…then we nearly got killed by some sort of dog monster-"

"Monsters like those people down there?" asked the red-head suddenly, apparently feeling more comforted now. "Some of those attacked us before…and Ryan was nearly killed by them," she continued, looking down at the body of the young man on the stretcher, who was now moaning softly and stirring slightly in spot. He was wearing black jeans and black sneakers striped with silver, along with a grey shirt with a drum-kit design on it. White bandages were wrapped around his head and one of his knees, where red blood spots could be seen clearly.

"This is Ryan?" asked Cameron, indicating toward the young man.

The red-head nodded. "That's Ryan…he did so much to save as many of us as he could when the crap started. He promised to protect us all, but I never found out why…"

"This lad fought a pack of those things off with just a baseball bat," explained the British man. "We all owe him our lives, as far as I'm concerned. The brave boy…" The unconscious man shifted again in place, as the red-head stroked his head in a comforting manner.

"Oh, where are my manners?" said the British man suddenly, laughing a little. "I'm Steven, Steven Dreyfus. Nice to meet you, though I wish it were under…better circumstances."

"I'm Kelly," said the raven-haired girl, smiling weakly. "I worked in the uptown area…then when those things appeared I just ran, and ended up holed with these people."

"I'm Amy," said the red-head next, introducing herself last. "Amy Jefferson."

Cameron paused as he tried to recall where he'd heard that surname before, and then it finally hit him. "Amy? Do you happen to have a father called Albert, by any chance?"

She looked at him for several seconds, her surprise blatantly obvious. "How did you-?"

"He's at the refugee centre," explained Cameron. "Worried sick about his family as it happens. Nearly got himself killed trying to get past the guards and into the city…"

"So he's alive?" she asked, smiling wide with relief, before she started laughing, and looked out of the side hatch of the chopper. "Thank God…" But then she turned back to Cameron again. "What about my mother? Was she there as well? Please tell me that she was!"

Cameron sighed and lowered his head, feeling somewhat guilty that he wasn't able to make her feel better in that regard. "I'm sorry, but I didn't see anyone else there with him…" She looked at him, her hope shattered, before looking down again, avoiding eye-contact.

"Hold on," said Steven suddenly, getting Cameron's full attention. "You said the road was guarded? Has the military cordoned the city off?"

Cameron nodded in response. "Yeah, by the looks of it. To stop those…'things', getting out of the city." He shivered inwardly as he mentioned 'things'. The recent memories of those once-human creatures down in the streets still made him uneasy.

"Makes sense," nodded Steven, "just as well that my family's out of the country. Now I definitely wish I never agreed to come to that damned progress conference!"

"What progress conference?" asked Cameron, curiously.

"A meeting with Umbrella's top executives," explained Steven with a shake of his head, "to discuss this quarter's profits."

Cameron held his tongue at the mention of Umbrella. If what Fletcher had told him before was true, then they were behind this entire mess: and the man before him worked for the corporation. He was tempted to ask him about this virus the corporation was responsible for, but decided against it. There was a good chance that not every employee of Umbrella knew about the virus, or the reasoning behind its creation, if there was even one.

"OK, we're over the R.P.D now," announced Mike suddenly.

Cameron perked up, leaning around to look down at the instantly-recognisable structure of the R.P.D building, something that was more akin to an art gallery than a police headquarters. He saw the flags billowing from above the front doors, but more pertinently he saw the hordes of 'zombies' in the street below, and in the courtyard, literally a seething mass of bodies that seemed to sway in unison. The chorus of moaning was overwhelming.

"Holy crap," muttered Steven as he looked down. "I never thought it would be this bad-"

"So the R.P.D has been wiped out by the looks of it," observed Lenny dryly. "That's just fucking marvellous!"

Cameron felt his heart plummet at the sight of the city's police headquarters being over-run by those zombies. If Dean and Ben were holed up inside it somewhere, then chances were they could hardly hold up for very long against such huge numbers. This whole trip could have just been a wasted effort.

"Sorry man," said Mike, looking at Cameron apologetically.

"Don't be," replied Cameron shaking his head sadly. "This isn't your fault."

"Look, we still have a good amount of fuel left," explained Mike, trying to make Cameron feel a little better in any way he could. "We'll search around some more and then we do have to head back, lest we run out of fuel and crash in a flaming ball of fire." Cameron just nodded in response, as Mike ordered the pilot to swing the helicopter around. They all lurched to the side as the chopper swung about and flew to the north a few blocks, until they were hovering over the north-western part of Raccoon Street.

They were now over St. Michael's clock tower, one of the oldest buildings in the city, and widely regarded as a landmark by its citizens and tourists alike. Now the ancient clock was no longer turning, as a fire raged in the street just outside its opulent garden, and a few dozen zombies loitered below. The chopper lingered in the sky above it for several seconds, the breeze from the rotor blades stirring the smoke from the fire, before it peeled away and moved to the street over, known as 'Marble Avenue', adjacent to the Raccoon City park, a green and pleasant piece of grassland and trees that had remained largely untouched since the city had been first constructed. The cover of trees obscured most of the park area, but figures could be seen wandering around where the ground had been laid with concrete, around the numerous water features.

Further up the road was Raccoon General Hospital, a large, square-shaped white building that acted as the city's main hospital, instantly recognisable by the large red cross above the double front doors, and by the ambulances parked in the bay outside the building's rear area. And as Cameron expected, even more zombies were lingering outside the building, crowding around the closed doors and knocking at them in a vain attempt to break in.

"Even the hospital's been overrun," sighed Kelly, looking down at the scene below.

"It was overrun in hours," muttered Lenny, noticing a makeshift barrier made from a pair of police cruisers down the road from the hospital entrance. "I heard the dying screams of the officers defending this place over the radio."

"Geez," murmured Steven from next to the R.P.D officer, even as he glanced down at the hospital's roof, complete with helicopter landing pad, used for when the air ambulance would fly in people who hurt themselves when hiking out in the distant forests or mountains. He looked more closely and saw another one of those things standing in the middle of the helipad, waving its arms frantically in the air-

Were those things even smart enough to wave their arms at helicopters? He looked closer again, and realised that the zombie was indeed waving its arms, and shouting something as loud as it could manage.

"Hey!" Steven cried, grabbing Mike's shoulder and indicating down towards the helipad far below. "There's someone alive down there!" Mike gazed down towards where Steven's finger was pointing, and started when he saw the waving figure down below. Then he was yelling something at the pilot in the cockpit.

"Take us down! Now!"

"Right!" shouted the pilot back, already moving the chopper around to come in and land as straight as possible. Mike leaned out the side, his megaphone raised.

"We're coming down for you! Get ready to climb on!" Down below, the waving figure ceased and backed away from the massive red 'H' of the helipad, even as the chopper was already descending, the wind stirring up the litter and other detritus littering the helipad. After several seconds, the Blackhawk had landed successfully, rocking as it came to a halt on the roof, the rotors still spinning wildly.

"Come on! Get on!" cried Mike, reaching his arms out. At the sound of his voice, the waving figure approached hurriedly, grabbing onto Mike's arms and allowed himself to be dragged onto the chopper, nearly slipping as he was pulled into the cargo area. He was a young man, perhaps in his early twenties, with light brown hair and green eyes, and wearing a white flannel shirt with faded denim jeans, both splattered with blood. His face was coated in grime and drawn with a distinct lack of sleep.

"Oh thank God for you all!" he sighed as he settled into one of the vacant seats in the chopper. Then he looked around at the other people in there with him, seemingly recognising their presence at last. Then he looked rather shocked. "Oh man…"

"Zac?" asked the red-head, looking up into his dirty face and smiling widely. "Oh my God, Zac!" Then she was jumping up and throwing her arms around his neck. He seemed taken aback at first, but then he was returning the gesture, laughing a little in response.

"Amy?" he asked, supremely relieved. "Oh man, am I glad to see your beautiful face again!" She smiled at the comment, and then the two of them let each other go and moved away.

"But Zac, where the hell have you been?" asked Amy. "We all thought you were dead!" The young man now known as Zac shook his head in response, still smiling.

"Oh no, not me," he explained. "I was on my way in for a lecture when this shit all started. Ran for my life instead and ended up at the clock tower instead with some other people…but then those monsters broke in and I just ran…left them all behind to die…"

"You didn't have a choice," reasoned Steven from next to them. "I'm sure."

"Did I?" replied Zac, sounding unconvinced. "Anyways, I ended up in the hospital, and after that I wished I went elsewhere…there's some fucked-up shit in there, believe me…but what happened to you guys?"

Amy breathed deeply before she replied, getting her thoughts together. "Those things attacked the campus, and so I just ran, me and Michelle…but they were everywhere." She looked tearful as she recalled those frightful moments when they had no-where else to run to. "But Ryan was there, he saved us and got us out...he saved us Zac, all by himself. And now-"

She looked down at the unconscious Ryan, to showcase what she was about to say next.

"Oh shit, Ryan dude!" half-cried Zac as he moved down to check on his friend. "What the hell happened?"

"We got attacked by some dog monsters," explained Steven, looking down at the unconscious teenager, "and he fought them off, but got himself knocked out as a result. He was lucky his throat wasn't ripped out."

"And who are you?" asked Zac, looking around at the people who were unfamiliar to him in the helicopter. They all made their quick introductions in turn, until it was Cameron's turn.

"I'm uh, it's a long story why I'm here," he said, "but I'm here to find my friends if I can. Me and my other friend Travis came here from Virginia."

"I see," nodded Zac. "What are your friend's names?"

"Well uh, Ben and Dean," replied Cameron, "and they're both with the R.P.D."

Zac's face seemed to light up at the mention of one of the names, and he locked eyes with Cameron. "Dean, you said? Dean Travers? Brown hair, green eyes-"

"You've been with him?!" cried Cameron, sitting upright at the sound of some good news. "Where is he?"

"Um," replied Zac, looking downtrodden all of a sudden, "he turned up at the clocktower a couple days ago, was going to help us get out of here, he said. But then something happened and we got separated-"

"Where the hell is he? Is he still alive?" asked Cameron, practically in Zac's face now.

"Hey, give him some room!" shouted Amy, pushing Cameron back from her friend, but she went largely ignored within the current conversation.

"I don't know!" whined Zac, clearly uncomfortable. "But the last time I saw him, he was definitely alive! I swear!"

"You sure?" asked Cameron, calming down somewhat. The news that his friend was alive reassured him quite a bit.

"Positive," nodded Zac, looking down at the ground. "He was a big help. He saved us from that bastard…"

"Who?"

"I'm sorry to interrupt," said Mike suddenly, moving in front of Zac and blocking the eye contact between the young student and Cameron, "but you're not hurt, are you sir?"

"N-no," said Zac, shaking his head.

"One of those things didn't bite you, did they?"

"Oh hell no!"

Cameron took his attention away from the conversation and looked out of the side hatch again, at the ruined city below him. Dean was alive! At least, according to this young student before him, the one splattered with someone else's blood and with the bleary, terrified eyes. But that was then, so what about the here and now? Was Dean still alive somewhere, or was he reduced to one of those…zombies or whatever they were called? And what about Ben? No, he thought. If Dean was alive, then Ben had to be, they just had to be. All through life the two of them had been through the worst together, and they'd get through this together.

Now he wanted to search every inch of this city, to try and find his friends, still alive and well, but he knew fine well they didn't have unlimited fuel supplies, so it wouldn't work. And he seriously doubted that he'd be able to convince Lieutenant Fletcher to let him go on another helicopter recon: he was already breaking enough protocols by letting him go on this one, he garnered.

By now, Mike had finished checking Zac over and saw that he was still in one piece, and now he was discussing something with the pilot over the radio link, so there was no need to shout over the roar of the rotors. After several seconds, he turned back towards the passengers.

"OK people, we're heading back now," he announced. "Sit tight and we'll get all of you to safety." Several sighs of relief greeted that last statement, as Cameron glanced out the side hatch again, as the Raccoon General Hospital pulled away from view below. Soon they were flying over row upon row of streets, filled with burning wreckage and unnatural creatures.

Dean crept down the aisle, his shotgun scanning for any threats. His feet dragged against the grey carpet as he moved about.

The place was totally abandoned. There were rows of desks and cubicles occupying the main middle of the floor area, with some enclosed offices at the far end of the floor, overlooking the street directly below. Dean guessed these were reserved for the higher-classed employees who worked in this place.

The silence was prevailing: only the hum of the overhead lights could be heard. Aside from that, paperwork was still lying on desktops in neat piles, computers were still on and waiting to be used (practically all of them had the same screensaver, of a small Umbrella logo that bounced and span around the black screen), and electric fans still buzzed lazily, turning through their rotation every few seconds.

He moved around the corner of one desk, looking over the items placed on it. Most of the desks had been personalised by their owners, and this one was dotted with several photographs that had been stuck to the edges of the computer screen, and onto the surrounding wooden partitions. They showed a young blonde man, posing with several other people, possibly his family, in various places. All of them were smiling widely, in a carefree manner.

Dean wondered who these people were, or indeed if they were still alive. Probably not, considering the state of things outside. And he'd probably join them, if he didn't find a cure for this damned virus that was coursing through his and Ben's bodies.

And as for the ones already gone…he couldn't have done anything. Or could he? Robert Devlan sacrificed himself to allow Dean and Ben to escape, but a part of his mind told Dean there should have been another way out of that situation: they could have killed all those zombies and found another way to the office building, or find a door out of that ally, or-

He stopped and rubbed his tired face. He'd lost count of how many people he had seen or heard die throughout this entire mess: most of his R.P.D colleagues, Taylor Drecker, Sam and Joe at the clock tower, the U.B.C.S…and of course practically everyone else in Raccoon's population. Way too many people had died so far, thanks to Umbrella's negligence and attempts at playing God. When he got out of here…

He shook his head and looked around again, towards the offices across from him, where the doors were mostly shut, but one was swinging open on its hinges, gently. Taking a deep breath, he approached, his shotgun raised.

Down on the second floor, Ben was busy going through a stack of key cards he had found, but all of them were only Level 1 or 2 clearances, mainly for regular staff and security personnel. He sighed in annoyance and dropped the cards onto the table he'd been standing next to, looking down at the many faces printed onto the front of the cards.

Most of them were smiling slightly, for the camera as it took the picture of them. He skimmed over the multitude of names, but paid them little attention, since they were most likely dead or zombified now. He rubbed his face a few times and sighed again, before he had a thought and reached down to his pocket, taking out one of the small white anti-viral pills he'd been given and swallowing one, the rough texture of the pill rubbing his thought as it passed down his gullet.

He still didn't feel any different since he'd been told that he was infected, and that's what scared him the most. If he was infected with this deadly virus, why wasn't he feeling anything? What was that supposed to mean? Would the change to a zombie be gradual, or would it be very sudden?

He sighed again. He was so tired and needed to take a really long rest, but he couldn't afford that luxury right now. He needed to remain fully alert; otherwise his lack of concentration could get him killed. Dean was relying on him to stay sane, so they could both get out alive.

He glanced up and looked around him. The drab grey carpet, the dull wooden partitions of the cubicles, everything about this place was dragging him down. He just hoped that they wouldn't be staying here for much longer. He reached down and picked up his recently acquired AK-47 assault rifle, pulling the bolt back and walking over towards the far side of the floor.

He rounded the corner of one of the far cubicles and paused. The carpet was stained with deep red streaks, leading away from him and into one of the enclosed offices; its door left half-open. Within the bloody streaks he could see faint outlines of footprints, one wearing a shoe, and the other just barefoot. All of the prints were smudged, moving away from him.

After staring at the marks for several seconds, Ben raised his AK and crept forward, following the streaks towards the office door about 15 feet away from him. On first glance, it looked as though the building would be free of any kind of monster, but now it looked as though it was occupied after all.

He took a few more steps toward the door, and then froze when he heard the long, drawn-out moaning emanating from the partially-opened door. He kept staring at the gap, willing the monster to show itself, but nothing happened, and silence descended yet again. Then after several more seconds, another moan came, this one not as drawn-out as the initial sound, but still creepy enough to send a chill up his spine.

He wanted the damned thing to show itself, but guessed that it probably wouldn't unless it was aware that he was there. He had to make his presence known somehow. He didn't know how sensitive these things' senses were, but he guessed they couldn't be that advanced, since they were technically dead. He glanced around, and spied a clay mug left on one of the desk tops just near to him.

Thinking for a few seconds, he picked the mug up and tossed it against the wall opposite to him as hard as he could manage. There was a loud _crack! _as the object smacked into the wall and shattered into countless pieces, scattering about the carpet in a random fashion. About a second later, he heard the dragging footsteps again, from beyond the half-open door. Another two seconds later, the zombie came around the corner and into the doorway.

It was a male office drone, the white shirt with tie and black dress pants said as much. One of the pant legs had been ripped away from below the knee down, and the man's foot was bare, the other one clad in a simple brown leather shoe. Blood was smeared all over the man's torso from the waist up, and part of his face had been chewed off, exposing the bone on the right side of his face, the exposed eye socket empty. The man's blonde hair was plastered to his scalp with blood, and the exposed flesh on his arms was greying and covered in lesions and cuts. The man offered yet another weak moan and reached out with its bony fingers towards Ben, who raised his AK and pulled the trigger instead.

RATATATATAT!

Three separate rounds erupted from the gun's barrel, the muzzle flash lighting up the immediate surroundings. Two rounds punched into the zombie's stomach and the third one hit it in the torso, spinning it backwards into the door and off of its feet. Ben looked down at the assault rifle and realised that it had been set onto the burst mode, where each pull of the trigger would fire off three separate rounds in a quick burst, which was hardly necessary for this one enemy.

Another moan caught his attention, and he glanced up again as the zombie rose to its feet, blood dribbling from the fresh wounds in its body, its face still vacant. Ben clicked the rifle onto single shot mode and raised it up again, putting a final, fatal round right between its eyes. Most of the monster's head exploded into bloody chunks, and its body flopped onto its back in the doorway, not moving afterwards.

Ben breathed out as he lowered the rifle, before he pulled the magazine out and checked how many rounds were left in it. There were 11 rounds left, enough to last him for a good while, as long as he wasn't attacked by any of those 'Hunters' or some other kind of monster. Slamming the magazine back into the weapon, he walked up to the fallen zombie, still aiming his weapon down at it, but it didn't move as he hovered over it. Satisfied, he lowered the gun and looked around the office.

It was fairly cramped, most of the space taken up by the large wooden desk in the rough middle of the room, and a pair of filing cabinets set up in opposite corners of the room, along with an electric fan placed on a small wooden table, still buzzing away, producing a pleasant breeze. The place looked as though it had been ransacked as well, what with the drawers of all the filing cabinets emptied out, and countless sheets of paper strewn on the floor and the desk itself. There was a waste paper bin in the middle of the floor, filled with partially-burnt papers and black ashes. The smell of smoke could still be detected in the air, barely.

Ben looked around at some of the paper sheets that were right next to him, face up. Pretty much all of them were finance figures for all of Umbrella's departments for this year, the kind of stuff that went right over his head as far as he was concerned. But looking at one of them, he could see that the company's expenditures seemed to be unusually high around the July and August period, which was around the time the infamous 'cannibal murders' had started. If Umbrella had been behind those initial murders, then these figures made a lot of sense, if they were shelling out for a cover up. But he doubted all of the money in the world could have covered this mess up.

He discarded the paper and looked down at the desk, where a small lamp had been knocked onto its side. Another piece of paper had been left lying face-up on the desk surface, but someone had written on the front of it in a black fountain pen, which lay discarded nearby. The writing was rather precise, but it became scratchier by the last few lines. Ben picked the note up to have a read.

_So much for thinking less of this whole situation._

_It went from a few disturbances across the city to a city-wide outbreak, thousands of those…things, I don't know what to call them, roaming the streets and feasting upon the flesh of the living. They're like those monsters in the old horror movies I used to watch when I was younger…_

_I guess I'm the only one left in the building who's still alive: most of the staff fled when those things appeared on the streets outside, but I heard the screaming from somewhere above me, so someone wasn't so lucky. I got turned around and locked myself in this room during the initial scrum, and decided to wait it out. When it became clear that things weren't getting better in the city, I tried to make myself useful, in disposing of the Corporation's records, like it was drummed into our heads during training. But I'm just one person, so God knows how much I'll get down by myself. _

_Actually…I'm sure Donovan's crew are still alive. I didn't see any of them during the evacuation of the building. Are they still underground? Or were they killed by those creatures? Thinking is the only thing that's stopping me from going insane, and I'm running out of things to think about. _

_I think I actually heard someone walking about outside as well, so I'll go and have a look soon. It could be another human survivor, or it could be another one of those monsters. Won't know for sure unless I go and have a look though…_

He sighed as he looked back down at the still body next to him, a former Umbrella employee who had been making some attempt to cover up his employer's transgressions, even with the state things were in now.

But the mention of this 'Donovan' got his attention. According to the seriously wounded guard he and Dean had spoken to before, Donovan was the head of the underground storage facility, and was supposedly still alive down there, along with his staff. But that could have been a while ago, so were they still down there?

He left the cramped confines of the office and looked around. Far as he was aware of, he had searched the entire floor and found nothing of value or use. So it was time to move on again. Just a few more floors to go and maybe they could get somewhere worthwhile…

BANG!

The zombie keeled back, falling over the partition and making an almighty racket into the bargain.

"Take that!" cried Dean, more as a way to relieve his stress than anything else. He leaned back up against the wall behind him, taking several deep breaths.

He was on the 8th floor now, and had been getting a little too complacent with how the place had seemed entirely abandoned. When he had descended the stairwell to the next floor, he had encountered a pair of zombies loitering on the landing, just waiting for someone to come along. Both of them had clean clothes and looked in good condition, aside from their pale skin, and not covered in hideous injuries like the majority of zombies he had seen so far. Although he had no trouble in dispatching them, it was while he was walking the line of cubicles in the main area that he was taken by surprise by a zombie that had lunged over one of the partitions at him. It was another security guard, his black uniform ripped apart from the waist up and most of his face chewed off. The image of a grinning bloody skull, inset with disturbing white eyes, coming straight at him, was pretty terrifying he had to admit.

He continued to aim his gun at the still body, willing it to come back so he could shoot it a few more times, but it remained where it had fallen, thankfully. After everything he'd been through so far, he thought his fear of the zombies had diminished to nothing. But now he knew that it hadn't, not fully.

A single bite of scratch would be as bad as having his throat torn out by an undead monster's teeth, as it meant the virus would have passed to him. He was already infected, of course, but only a minor infection for both of them, they had been told. How long would that take to turn him then? A week? Several days? A day? Or several hours from now?

He wished he knew more, but that wasn't to be, since anyone who could have given him a clear answer had been dead for a while now. Will, Joel, Mac, Devlan, Nick-

He rubbed his face with his free hand. They were all dead, and it was down to just him and Ben now. They had to face whatever dangers were yet to face them before they would be able to escape the city, and he had to be strong. He couldn't go and have a nervous breakdown now, especially since Ben seemed so fragile ever since they had first met back up, the other day. So fragile that it was totally out of character for him.

He slowly pushed himself upright, still staring down at his latest kill with weary eyes. The body twitched involuntarily a few times, even with a hole in its head. He walked away from it and around the cubicles, doing a quick search of the area, finding little else of interest. When he moved around to search the enclosed offices though, he got a surprise when he saw an open doorway, and past that there was another figure slumped up against a desk, a man with his head slumped forward into his chest. He was wearing a white shirt and black pants, like any other person who would work in a place like this. There was a large red stain on his shirt, from just below his left nipple down, and he was holding a small derringer pistol in his right hand.

The figure moaned, and for a second Dean thought he'd be putting another undead monster down, but then the man coughed weakly, and Dean was fairly sure that zombies didn't cough. He quickly stepped forward and stooped down to help the man any way he could.

"Hey, it'll be allright," he said, taking a closer look at the man's wound. He'd been shot through the left lung by the looks of it, and that was never a good thing. The man, about Dean's age, with dark brown hair and green eyes, looked upwards at his saviour, with heavy eyes, barely able to keep them open. He was sweating profusely as well.

"Who…who's there?" he asked, looking to try and find the source of the mystery voice.

"Don't talk, I'm here to help," muttered Dean, glancing around to see if there was anything in the room that could be a potential threat to him, but it was empty of anything remotely interesting, unless you counted office paperwork and furniture as interesting. There wasn't any sign of any monster or human otherwise, just himself and the wounded man, who he turned back to. "Who did this to you?"

"One of…Donovan's lackies," the man breathed, his head dropping as he talked. He was close to death, it was obvious, so Dean couldn't do anything else for him. "Thought I was…a fucking zombie…and shot me…barely got this far before I…couldn't go…any further…"

Donovan. That name had come up again. The supposed head of this secret underground facility they were looking for, but it wasn't that secret if the people working here knew about him on a name basis.

"He's…the head honcho…round here…" explained the man, in case it needed explaining. His head lolled around. "Runs…the whole building…and he spends…lot of time…underground…"

"I need to get down there. I need a Level 5 clearance," urged Dean. "Where do I find a card of that number?"

"Only person…who's got one…is Donovan-"

_Great…_

"-but our boss Sanderson…has one as well…his office…down on…7th floor…"

"The 7th floor?" asked Dean.

The man nodded, just barely. "Be careful…heard…screaming…"

_Well that's just great, _thought Dean to himself.

"Forget about me…I'm too…far…gone," the wounded man croaked, dropping his head again. Dean realised that blood was still seeping out of the man's wound, and had been for some time probably.

"Sorry I couldn't help you further," he said, feeling guilty.

"Forget that," the man sighed, coughing up a small amount of bloody phlegm. "Just go…leave this damned place…and if you find Donovan…put a bullet in his face, for all…our sakes."

Dean hesitated. "Why?"

"That bastard," wheezed the man, the anger in his voice barely noticeable, "sold us out…he deserves to die…"

Dean said nothing more as he stood up. He didn't like the idea of shooting someone in cold blood, but he'd at least need to keep his guard up, were he to run into this Donovan character. He started to move away from the wounded office worker, so he was stood outside the doorway.

""Make…him…pay," wheezed the bleeding man again, before he raised the pistol up and pressed it underneath his chin.

BANG!

The gunshot was almost insignificant compared to other weapon discharge sounds, but the suddenness of it still made Dean jump slightly from surprise. He turned back around to see the man slumped onto his side now, a fresh wound punched through the bottom of his chin and out the top of his scalp. Gunsmoke trailed faintly from the wound, but the man's face was oddly calm and at peace. He sighed at the sight, before he walked away, heading for the stairwell once more.

He pushed through the double doors, danced around the bodies of the two fallen zombies from before, and descended the steps two at a time. His footfalls echoed up and down the stairwell, the only sound of life that was left there now. When he reached the doors onto the 7th floor, he peered through the dark glass set into the upper half of the doors, but he could see little beyond, just faint outlines of various office furniture and cubicles. He wondered if the office worker had mistaken their being a threat down here, so delirious was he from loss of blood-

Then he saw something sway by in the near distance, and he tensed up. He saw the faint outline of someone's shoulders and head, bobbing slightly as they took a shaky step forward, the head bobbing with the motion. He tightened his grip around his handgun, and gripping the door handle with his other hand. If there was just the one zombie, then this would be easy for him. Counting down from three in his head, he barged through the door, making a considerable racket.

The zombie of a security guard, his nose ripped off, turned at the sound of the doors opening.

BANG!

A 9mm round hit it just above the left eyebrow, spinning it off of its feet, but Dean was more concerned with what was around him.

Several more zombies, at least a dozen he reckoned, inhabited this floor of the building, wandering aimlessly about or just standing on the spot, swaying slightly. But at the sound of his entry into the area had attracted the attentions of several of them, which were now approaching with their arms outstretched, in that manner he had become highly accustomed to in the last few days. Most of them were dressed in the standard white shirt and black pants combo, but a few of them were security guards.

He heard a sound to his left and turned in time to see a brunette woman with only one arm reaching out towards him, her white shirt ripped from the shoulder down to her stomach, exposing the red bra she was wearing, and the disturbing condition of her skin.

"Shit!" he cried, swinging his Beretta round to face her, and shooting her in the face just as she was lunging towards him. She snapped back, crashing into a water cooler and knocking it to the floor, spilling water everywhere.

Even as she was hitting the floor, Dean had to turn to face the next zombie which was now in attack range, and came at him with its teeth bared. He pointed his Beretta down the monster's throat and fired, blowing out the back of its skull. It landed face-down at his feet, bleeding onto the drab carpet.

He unslung his shotgun even as the next two once-humans rounded the desk just ahead of him, reaching out with bony, emaciated fingers.

Travis sat on the hood of his pick-up truck, constantly tapping his feet against the front grille. They'd been gone for too long, and he kept scanning the horizon, expecting to see the returning chopper, with all of his friends aboard, and then maybe they could go home and forget that any of this had ever happened.

He still had the blood on his shirt from when he had tackled that dog in the forest, stabbing it to death with the flick knife he had found at the camp site in the forest, to save Cameron from having his throat torn out. The details of that incident were still fresh in his mind, and he shivered at the memory: the barks and growls of the dogs, the way they came tearing after them faster than was physically possible, the smell-

And then there was that green 'thing' he had been shown in that tent behind the motel…the thing that Dr. Coates seemed to be excited with, the green reptilian creature with the viscous-looking claws on its hands and feet- things like that and those dogs that were rotting away should never have existed. What the hell was happening in Raccoon City? So much for a surprise visit to some friends…

Then he heard the unmistakable sounds of helicopter rotors, and he glanced up to see a black shape coming towards him on the horizon. He jumped to his feet, staring at the tiny object, and soon it assumed the outline of a Blackhawk helicopter, the same one he had seen leaving the base some time ago. Smiling in relief, he started to walk away from his vehicle, and then he was jogging towards the far side of the motel, where the helicopter had originally taken off from, and where several soldiers, including Lieutenant Fletcher, were starting to gather, weapons readied.

"Hold on, Travis," said Fletcher, putting his arm out and blocking the civilian's advance. "Don't smother them now; most of those people have probably been through a lot and need some space." Travis took one look at the officer's calm expression, and it was enough to make him stay where he was, but he still bounced on his feet, impatiently.

The Blackhawk wheeled around so it could land within the clearing below, the winds nearly pushing the gathered soldiers off of their feet. Travis pulled his coat around him, to stop himself being lifted away, and turned his feet, digging into the ground to try and give himself some purchase, but it wasn't working very well, as he could feel himself about to be pushed around like a child's toy.

After several seconds, the chopper had touched down, and the corporal that had accompanied Cameron into the city was already jumping out of the chopper, helping several people in civilian clothes out. He counted at least four, and another one being helped out on the makeshift wooden stretcher. Pretty much all of them were covered in blood one way or another.

"Oh God," he thought to himself, as he watched a young red-headed girl disembark from the chopper. She looked about the same age as Michelle back home…Then he saw another one dressed as an R.P.D officer and felt hope rise in his heart, but the man turned to face him and he realised that it wasn't Dean or Ben, his hope crushed once again.

"Get them to the tents and have them checked out, now!" shouted Fletcher loudly, as the other soldiers moved forward to aid. Within several more seconds, the civilians were being herded away toward the tents in the near distance, even as Cameron finally stepped off of the helicopter, tearing off the flight helmet he'd been given and throwing it inside the vehicle's fuselage, sitting himself down on the edge of the cargo bay. His gaze was blank and sweat was dripping from his forehead. Travis quickly jogged up to him.

"Dude, you allright?" asked Travis, and he got Cameron's blank stare in response. His friend barely seemed to register his presence, staring past him into space.

"Travis," he said, breathlessly, "it's like the apocalypse."

"What do you mean?"

"Dammit!" snapped Cameron, causing Travis to flinch in surprise and take a step back. "Car wrecks, buildings on fire, devastation in the streets, and those…those…things, wandering about!"

"What things?" asked Travis, confused.

"I haven't seen for myself," said Fletcher, appearing at Travis' shoulder suddenly, "but my men have reported seeing hundreds of people wandering the streets of Raccoon. People that…aren't normal people. It doesn't paint a very positive picture."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" asked Travis, still no closer to having his question answered by either of his companions.

"They're like the walking dead," whispered Cameron, staring ahead of him. "They should be in the ground, but they're still walking around like nothing's happened!" Travis just continued to stare at him, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up on end. He couldn't believe what he was being told, but after witnessing the sights in those tents and those twisted dogs running around the forest from earlier, he was willing to believe anything now.

"Lieutenant! Lieutenant!"" shouted another voice from behind them. They turned to see a soldier running towards them, waving his arms frantically in the air. He stopped before them, panting for breath.

"Whoa, take a deep breath and start talking, son," said Fletcher, noting the man's breathlessness. The man took a few big gulps of air before he finally started talking.

"Sir, we got company!" he said, pointing to the area next to the motel, where a small chopper, barely half the size of the Blackhawk Cameron had just gotten off, was starting to touch down on the ground. Several soldiers in the area had stopped to look at the new arrival, wondering who it could be.

"Who could that be?" asked Travis.

Fletcher knew. "Officer on deck," he said simply, already walking forward. "Excuse me gentlemen." Travis watched after him for a few seconds, before he looked back at Cameron, and reached his hand out.

"Come on man, tell me what happened," he said. Cameron stared up at him for several more seconds, before he offered up his own arm and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

Gordon Fletcher approached the man in the barely-fitting camouflage jacket and pants who had disembarked from the Little Bird helicopter that had just landed shortly beforehand. He stopped short of the new arrival and snapped into a smart salute.

"Colonel Adams!" he said loudly. "What do I owe the honour?" There was slight sarcasm in his voice as he spoke.

Colonel Richard Adams was a bullish, balding man in his early fifties, and what little hair he had left was going silver rapidly. He was Fletcher's senior officer, but practically all the men at Raccoon garrison respected Fletcher much more than they did the old Colonel, and for good reason: Adams was known to come down hard on the other soldiers for even the smallest infraction, and his temper was notoriously short, to say the least. And right now, he didn't look too amused.

"Save it, Lieutenant," snapped the colonel, as Fletcher lowered his hand. "I need to speak with you, urgently, in private."

Fletcher tried to think what the Colonel could want with him, in the few seconds before he replied. "As you wish Colonel," he said with a slight smile. "We can talk in my command tent."

Fletcher led the way over to his command tent, glancing over at Cameron and Travis who were walking away, back towards their vehicle. He just hoped that Adams didn't ask about them. The two officers had barely passed into the command tent when Adams reached up and dropped the main flaps so they had some semblance of privacy. The two guards stood outside glanced nervously at one another. Inside, Fletcher stood over by his fold-up desk, as the colonel remained stood near the entry point.

"Lieutenant, I've been hearing certain things about you," said Adams, barely giving Fletcher time to get his thoughts together.

_I can tell where this is going, _thought Fletcher to himself. He forced a smile instead, trying to keep his cool if something were to be said that got his back up. "What kind of things, Colonel?"

"Someone tells me that you haven't been following procedure," answered Adams, clasping his hands behind his back in a similar way that Fletcher always used to when he was lecturing the men. "That you have been saying things to some non-military personnel, as it happens." Fletcher tensed up.

_How the hell did he find out about that? Unless…someone else__ here went over my head and told him. But who'd do that? _

The Lieutenant smiled again. "Who could have said that? I hope it wasn't one of my men here, because I'm sure they know better than to go over my head. If they had any problem with how I was handling this situation, they could have come to me directly instead of-"

"Save it, Gordon," snarled Adams, and the junior officer closed his mouth. He knew when to keep his mouth shut and when to argue a point. "You know fine well what's at stake here, how sensitive this is. If the media get even a single whiff of what's happening in the city, then the resulting storm would cause a lot of ruptures-"

"Especially for Umbrella?" asked Fletcher, casually. Adams shut his mouth and glared at the Lieutenant, as though he'd just been personally insulted in the worst possible fashion.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Gordon-"

"I think I do sir, and you do too," snapped Fletcher, silencing the Colonel. His face was wearing that trademark stern glare he had used to dissuade people from arguing against him plenty of times in the past. "You and me both were there when the board of directors held that conference with the local military leaders. When they gave us that cover story to give to the outside world. They're behind all this, so how can you defend them? Is that why you came here? So you can have me drummed out the garrison?"

Adams' face went bright red from anger. "I don't know who the hell you think you are in talking to your commanding officer like that! I should have you-"

He stopped abruptly when he realised that Fletcher's glare had turned from stern to plain threatening: the type of glare that could burn a hole through a concrete wall from 20 paces. The tirade he had ready to go seemed to catch in his throat, and Fletcher just smirked slightly.

"You're my senior officer and you can have me court-marshalled if you wished it, but you're still scared of me," he said, laughing. "That's because you're a bully, Colonel. You bullied your way to your current position, but you don't know a damned thing about being a good leader, do you?" Adams didn't say anything in his defence, he just kept staring at Fletcher, panting slowly, his rage still present, but not finding a chance to be unleashed yet. Outside, the two guards looked at one another again.

"Should we intervene?" asked one of him.

"No, let Fletcher wipe the floor with him," replied the other one, smirking.

"But I'm willing to disregard that, Colonel," Fletcher then said, walking towards the drawn tent flaps. "They say a picture's worth a thousand words, so why don't you come see them?"

"See what?" asked Adams, still flustered.

"You haven't seen them?" asked Fletcher, sounding surprised. "You're in charge of this entire quarantine operation, and yet no-one's reported to you about seeing strange things? Or is this whole secret-keeping business preventing all of that?"

"Stop talking to me like I'm an idiot, Fletcher!" snapped Adams suddenly, straightening himself up. "It depends on what you're…referring to exactly." He sounded somewhat embarrassed with that last statement.

"Well I can show you then," replied Fletcher. "If you'd come this way please, Colonel." Colonel Adams regarded Fletcher with wary eyes, before he finally turned away and passed through the tent flaps into the outside area.

As Fletcher followed him out, he glanced around the area for a few seconds. There was little out of the ordinary, except he saw a solitary figure stood over by one of the large storage containers near to the motel, looking over in their direction.

It was Corporal Greene. As soon as he realised that he'd been seen, he turned and walked away from out of sight, a little too hurriedly for his sake. It didn't take too long for Fletcher to put two and two together and come to a conclusion. Greene had been very vocal of his opposition to Fletcher telling Cameron and Travis the truth about what had been going on, so who better to go running to Colonel Adams?

_Greene, you__ spineless little runt…_

When Ben heard the gunfire from somewhere above him, he crashed back into the stairwell and pounded up the stairs two at a time, hoping that Dean hadn't gone and bitten off more than he could chew. After all, who else could have been in this building with him, besides a few more zombies?

He was part way up the stairs leading up to the 7th floor when he rounded a corner and nearly ran smack-bang into a zombie that had been coming down the stairs towards him. It was a tall man, nearly seven foot in height and wearing a dirty vest, its arms like tree trunks and corded with muscle, with several mouth-sized wounds ripped into the limbs. The blood from those wounds had trickled down his arms, forming intricate patterns within the folds of muscle and sinew. A moan issued from the man's open mouth as he reached out towards the human with bloody fingers.

Ben raised his Beretta and put a round through the man's right eye socket. He fell forward, and Ben barely had time to dodge out of the way as the corpse slumped forward and toppled down several stairs. The stench of decay washed into his nostrils as the monster tumbled past. It landed in a mangled heap at the bottom of the stairs, its legs and arms broken out of place. Blood leaked out of the hole in its head and formed a pool.

Ben took a deep breath before he turned and headed off again. He reached the doors onto the 7th floor and pushed through with a fair amount of force, his gun ready to fire.

The smell of gun smoke was still in the air, amongst the smell of rotting flesh. He looked around; noting several zombie corpses strewn about the floor, some of them flopped across empty desks and other office furniture, and many of them with their heads missing, burgundy pools soaking into the carpet beneath them. He glanced to his left, where a female zombie had knocked over a water cooler in her death throes. He was standing in the large puddle formed by the spillage.

"Jesus," he muttered, stepping forward and readying his Beretta, checking for any zombies that could still be lurking out of sight. "Dean? Are you in here?" he then asked, raising his voice. He moved around a nearby cubicle, trying not to dwell too much on each body he passed by, in case the image be burned into his mind forever.

_Not that it matters anyway: I've already seen enough screwed-up shit to last me ten lifetimes, _he thought to himself.

He stepped over an office worker with her chest ruptured open by a point-blank shotgun blast, and finally saw who he was looking for.

"Oh shit, Dean!"

His friend was leaning up against the wall directly across from him, panting for breath. His shotgun was on the floor in front of him, a shell wedged into the gun's ejection port, and his handgun was in his hand, the slide locked back into place. There was fresh blood on his shirt front and sweat on his forehead. A pair of zombies lay dead in front of him. He didn't seem to register Ben, even as he came running up to check on his friend.

"You allright?" asked Ben, stooping down. Dean finally looked up at him.

"Y-yeah," he said, nodding his head in a shaky manner. "Had to kill a few zombies…my shotgun jammed-"

"I can see that," nodded Ben. "You're still in one piece though, right?"

Dean looked down at his left sleeve, where part of the fabric had been torn away by someone's bloody teeth. Luckily, his skin was unbroken. "Well, things looked a bit hairy there for a second…"

"Hey come on, it's allright now, you killed them all," noted Ben, pointing to the nearest zombie corpses. Dean smiled a little at that comment. "But anyway, you found anything useful?"

"Y-yeah," nodded Dean, getting shakily to his feet. "Some guy called Sanderson has a Level 5 key card, and his office is one this floor somewhere."

"That's good."

"And there's definitely some people still trapped below ground," added Dean, as he reloaded his Beretta with shaky hands, letting the empty clip fall to the carpet. "But if we can trust them or not, I don't know."

"But still, it's better than there being no-one down there, right?" asked Ben. "I'd rather not be stuck underground by myself, either way."

"Yeah," nodded Dean, looking around. His gaze settled on a wooden door at the far end of the area, and to the brass plate that had been attached to the front of it. Even from this distance, he could just make out the name engraved into the surface.

William Sanderson.

"Over there," he said suddenly, taking a few steps toward the door. He picked up his shotgun and worked the jammed shell free from the ejection port, before inserting it back into the weapon and priming it to fire.

_Waste not want not, _he thought to himself.

Ben was already moving towards the indicated door now, his Beretta raised before him as he crept towards it. Dean might have killed all of the zombies on this floor by himself, but there could always have been others, lurking just out of immediate sight, ready to attack. The two men surrounded the door from different directions, covering all possible lines of sight in case something was to attack. Ben's ears pricked up as he got within 10 feet of the closed door.

"You hear that?" he whispered, loud enough for Dean to barely hear him. There was a muted sound in the air, like something being ripped apart. Flesh from the bone.

"I hear it," nodded Dean. "Maybe if we keep quiet-"

The flesh tearing sound ceased. It was followed by footsteps coming towards them.

CRASH!

The door slammed out on its hinges, nearly tearing itself out of its frame as a human-shaped creature charged out.

It was a zombie, but this one had bright red skin and razor-sharp claws for fingers, much like the ones they had previously encountered back at the Raccoon Burger joint. The ones that had infected Joel with the virus…

This one was clad in a white shirt; most of it stained a deep crimson, and black pants. Its eyes seemed to burn sheer white out of their sockets, and its exposed teeth were caked in dried blood and grime. It raised one of its arms up as it approached.

"Aw shit!" cursed Dean. Both he and Ben dropped and rolled away in separate directions as the monster's claw swipe sliced into thin air. Ben sprawled away and slammed back-first into a partition, but he was quickly scrambling up as the creature turned its attentions to him. The AK-47 was raised up, and he was pulling the trigger soon after.

A three-round burst smacked into the creature's sternum, the sheer force of impact forcing it to take a few steps back, arms flailing wildly. But the creature didn't fall, despite the new holes blown into its chest, and instead it was taking another step forward, hunger in its eyes.

BOOM!

A shotgun blast was heard and most of the monster's head erupted into a crimson fountain. The body flopped to the ground with a wet smack, and Ben stared at it as blood continued to pour from the severed neck stump. Beyond that, Dean stood with his shotgun drawn, smoke issuing from the barrel.

"Didn't jam that time, did you?" he said to the weapon, before he walked over to check on his friend. "You allright man?"

"Yeah," sighed Ben, finally lowering his rifle and letting it hang at his side limply. "That was a bit close though."

"You can say that again," nodded Dean, already looking towards the now opened doorway, the door barely hanging off of its hinges. "If those freaks are hanging around this place, then we need to be extra careful." Ben said nothing in response as he moved towards the doorway again and peered inside. All he could see was scattered office furniture and paperwork, nothing remotely threatening, though there were some blood footprints on the ground, from where the crimson zombie had barged through the door, eager to feed.

Then he peered his head further around the corner, into the room fully, and he seemed to freeze up. "Oh man…" he said, stepping out into the room.

"What is it?" asked Dean, following after him, but he stopped when he saw what Ben referred to. "Oh damn…"

At the far side of the room, there was a body hanging from a steel bracket set on the wall. It was a brown-haired man, dressed in an expensive but crumpled grey suit, with a matching shirt and dress pants, all the same colour, and topped off with expensive brown leather shoes. A golden watch was on his wrist. His head was tilted to the side, and his eyes closed. A grey necktie was wrapped around his neck, and leading up to the wall bracket. Dean could see where the tie had cut into the man's neck tight enough to draw blood, which had dripped down and soaked into his shirt collar. There was an office chair near to his dangling feet, tipped onto its side from when the man had originally hung himself. There was a creaking sound in the air, from where the man swung from his place of death.

Driven insane by what he had seen in the city, this man had chosen to take his own life rather than trying to beat his fears.

"Jesus, poor bastard," murmured Ben, walking up to examine the body more closely. The man's skin was pale, so it was likely he had been dead for a while, and there were several bite wounds on his lower legs, fresh blood trickling onto the floor. It seemed like that crimson zombie had been helping itself to a meal that wasn't moving.

Dean was stood over by the desk, which had been shoved over in front of the window (he could see the drag marks on the carpet from where it had been moved from its original position), the paper work scattered around in a haphazard fashion. There was a small note on the top of the desk, written in hurried black ink.

_Well it's all over now. Those zombies are wandering the streets, feeding off of the flesh of the living, and I'm probably the only one left in this building alive. I can hear those…those things moaning outside, so I've made the decision to take my own life, before __those monsters do. There's no hope left for anyone in this city anyways: even God himself has forsaken this place. Will anyone even remember me when I'm gone? Probably not, not a paper pusher such as myself. It doesn't matter anymore now. _

Dean sighed in pity. No-one deserved to go through this shit fest, only to lose all hope and take their own life, but things were too far gone now to matter now.

"Here, I think we found it," said Ben suddenly, drawing Dean's attention back to the still-swinging body. His friend was pointing up toward the ID card clipped to the man's left breast. Even from where he was stood, Dean could make out the large black 'Lv 5.' Stencilled in the top corner of the card, just above the small picture of the man who was wearing it.

"Bingo," said Dean with a smile. "Now get it so we can get the hell out of here, please."

Ben didn't need to be told twice, as he was already reaching up to grab a hold of the valuable object. He set his AK and his shotgun aside, stretching up on his tip-toes, while Dean stood by the door, watching out for any threats that could be lurking in the area. He glanced down at the nearest zombies he had previously killed as well, some of them twitching involuntarily every couple of seconds. Maybe their brains were still sending out bursts of activity, even when bullets had been put through them.

Ben felt as though the badge was thousands of meters away from him, and he felt uncomfortable having to take it from a dead body, what with the fact the dead had a habit of coming back to life in this city now. Sweat rolled down his forehead as he rested his hand against the body's upper leg, reaching out with his other free hand. Even through the material of the man's clothes, his skin was deathly cold, like an icy blizzard. He knew that body heat dissipated after you died, but this seemed ridiculous, unless this man had been dead for a long time.

He finally unclipped the ID card from the suit breast and went down to his regular height, looking at the object he'd just collected. All of that effort, just for this small bit of plastic.

He glanced back up at the hanging body, and was preparing to announce that he had got a hold of the item they needed, when the corpses eyes suddenly snapped open. For a single horrifying second, Ben thought that the man wasn't as dead as he looked. But the eyes were milky white, and they turned to look down at him.

"Oh sh-"

The newly-resurrected William Sanderson lunged down at him, reaching out with his arms, moaning pathetically. Ben pulled out his Beretta as he stepped back, and was about to put a bullet in the zombie's head when the bracket on the wall came loose, ripping itself out of the wall due to the weight pulling at it. Ben cried out as the zombie slammed into him, sending both of them to the floor and knocking his gun from out of his hands.

The zombie snarled as it tried to bring its teeth down to his neck, gnashing at thin air as Ben got his hands around the monster's bloody neck and forced it back as far as he could, but it was hard to keep a good grip, since his fingers kept slipping. His face was locked into a mask of sheer terror as the monster made another attempted bite, its putrid breath washing across his face.

"Help me for fuck's sake!" he screamed, wondering where the hell Dean was right about now.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed his thumbs into the zombie's eyes, as far as he could manage. The organs turned into a white sludge as he pushed through and into the eye sockets. But the monster still didn't let go of him, even with its eyes put out. As far as it was concerned, it had a hold of its next meal, and it wouldn't be letting go anytime soon, unless it was dead.

BANG!

Blood splashed onto Ben's face and the zombie's dead weight slammed down onto him. He continued to lie there for a few seconds, still staring at the lifeless body that had nearly taken his life, before he jumped up, shoving it off of him with a mighty cry of exertion. He stood there, breathing rapidly and staring down at the body for a few more seconds, before he noticed Dean standing a short distance away, his handgun raised and smoke trailing from the barrel.

"You allright?" he asked, moving over to check on his friend. "It didn't bite or scratch you did it?"

"N-no," said Ben, shaking his head, before looking back at Dean. "Where the hell where you man? I could have been killed!" That last part was delivered as a shout, the stress in his voice easily audible.

"I'm sorry man, I had to wait for a clear shot: I didn't want to hit you by accident-"

Ben didn't say anything; he just wiped his hands on his jeans, to remove the eyeball juice that was still stuck to his thumbs. Once that was taken care of, he smacked his hands to the side of his head and screamed as loud as he could physically manage.

"FUCK!" he cried, making Dean flinch from the suddenness of it all. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

"Ben!" said Dean, trying to get his friend to calm down, but by then Ben had turned his attentions onto the fallen zombie, kicking into its ribs repeatedly and screaming abuse at it. A few of its ribs snapped audibly. After several seconds, he finally stopped, falling back against the wall behind him, panting from the recent exertion.

"S-sorry about that," he panted, wiping his face. "Needed to…let it out somehow. But here-" he continued, as he held up the ID card he had just acquired from the dead body (before it had come back to life and tried to rip his face off).

"That's good," nodded Dean, taking the card from his friend and looking at it for a few seconds, before tucking it into one of his jean pockets. "You sure you're allright?"

"Yes, I'm fine," grunted Ben, pushing himself upright and retrieving his weapons from the floor nearby. "Let's just get out of here. " He walked out the room, pushing past Dean slightly to do so. Dean watched after him, and then followed, still looking a little concerned.

Back outside, they had taken a few steps when Ben stopped; put his weapons down, and picked up a fire extinguisher he had just spotted hanging on a nearby wall.

"Ben, what are you-?" asked Dean, but Ben ignored him, walking back into the office they had just left, and standing next to the body of the fallen zombie.

Summoning all his strength, he raised the extinguisher up and slammed it down onto the zombie's skull. There was an awful crack, akin to someone cracking their knuckles, and blood spilled out from a fresh fracture made in the skull. But he still wasn't down, and he slammed the heavy object down on the skull once again, and this time half of the zombie's head caved in, blood and brain matter spilling out across the carpet like a spilled drink. After that, he allowed the extinguisher to drop to the ground, and he looked back up at Dean, who was stood in the doorway again.

"Feel better for that?" he asked.

"Much," replied Ben.

"And that's about it," muttered Cameron, sat on a small brick wall near to the occupied motel. "Some screwed-up shit indeed."

"Geez," was all Travis could say, after hearing his friend's story. In particular, his descriptions of the strange people roaming the streets, the ones with the dead white eyes and covered in blood, made his stomach queasy just trying to imagine the sight. Cameron's description reminded him of a scene from some kind of zombie movie…

"But zombies don't exist," he muttered to himself, in disbelief.

"Well apparently logic was wrong," said Cameron dryly. "You're best off talking to Lenny. He's seen a lot more than I have."

"I will, later on maybe," Travis sighed, looking up towards the refugee tents, where the newest arrivals were being tended to by the army medics. In particular, he saw one of them, a young red-headed girl, embracing an old man with greying hair, the same old man that had threatened to force his way through the barricade the day before, and had nearly been shot as a result. Albert, his name was, he remembered.

"Oh Amy, thank the lord you're safe!" the old man cried, hugging her tightly.

"I'm OK dad, I swear!" the girl replied, laughing slightly, even though tears dripped from her eyes. "I'm a little shaken up, that's all. But where's mom?"

"Honey, I wish I knew," sighed Albert in reply, shaking his head sadly. "I haven't seen her since the other day-"

"Oh God no," whispered the girl now known as Amy. "Mom…"

Travis wondered how many times this scene was being repeated, in the other refugee centres all around the Raccoon County area. It was heart-rending to watch.

"All these people have lost everything," he said out loud suddenly. "No-one deserves to go through that shit."

"No, but it's happened either way," replied Cameron, observing the rows of sheltered people, wearing blank stares on their faces. "The fall-out of every major disaster, human made or otherwise…"

"Oh, here," said Travis, reaching into his pocket and passing Cameron's cell phone back to him. "Thought you'd want this back."

"Thanks," nodded Cameron. "Maybe I should give Lisa a call…"

A short distance away, the flaps on a tent parted and Lieutenant Fletcher and Colonel Adams emerged. Fletcher's face was passive, but Colonel Adams was looking rather pale, it had to be said. Pale after seeing what was lying on the steel tables inside the tent, the one that was strictly authorised personnel only.

"Good lord…" whispered the Colonel.

"You understand now, sir?" asked Fletcher, giving his superior a stern look. "Now you know what's at stake for Umbrella?"

"If this were to be made public-"

"Then the corporation would have an awful lot to answer for."

"They told me that a virus had been let loose in the city," explained the Colonel. "But I never for once imagined it could create things such as this!"

"So they did ask you to come and silence me?" asked Fletcher, casually.

"I was just told that there was a possible threat of an information leak," explained the Colonel, his face still pale. "And that it was in everyone's best interests to deal with it. But this…"

"I get the idea Colonel," said Fletcher, cutting him off. "So do you understand why now? Why I'm breaking protocol?"

Adams nodded slowly, understanding the implications of what was happening in Raccoon City now. "Yes, I understand Gordon. They asked me to intervene at first, but if they find out that you're still talking about this, they'll go further, you understand that?"

"I do," nodded Fletcher. "But I've already gone this far. I'm not about to back down now. Not about to start now."

"Then you're a brave man, Lieutenant," replied Colonel Adams, sighing. "But you're life could be at risk. If the implications of this disaster are this huge, they'd go as far as they need to in order to cover it up."

"Umbrella doesn't scare me," replied Fletcher instantly. "I just need to know that I have your support in this, Colonel."

Colonel Adams sighed and looked back towards the tent he had just emerged from previously. He just couldn't get that image of those dogs lying on the steel tables out of his head…or rather, the things that used to be dogs. He started to nod.

"Yes, you've got my support Gordon," he answered finally. "We should discuss this further in your command tent, if you don't mind. Who knows who might be a spy for Umbrella?"

_Funny you should say that, _thought Fletcher to himself.

"Of course not," replied Fletcher. "But you should excuse me Colonel; I have something to deal with first."

"Well don't let me keep you," nodded the Colonel, already walking away towards the command tent. As he went away, Fletcher turned and looked around, his face set. He knew who he was looking for.

Corporal Tobias Greene was stood over near the medical centre, crossing off names on the long list of wounded he was holding. Many people had been airlifted out to nearby hospitals due to their critical condition, and some other people had actually died after many hours trying to save them, leaving him to strike them off the list. One man had been unconscious when he was brought out of the city the other day, but when he woke up, his behaviour had bordered on delirious and downright dangerous. Ranting and raving about 'flesh-eating monsters', he had grabbed a scalpel and stabbed himself through the neck, taking his own life. It was a grim incident indeed, mainly because it actually reminded Greene of what was truly at stake within the city: something he was playing a somewhat minor part in.

He suddenly became aware of someone standing behind him, and he slowly turned, to find Lieutenant Fletcher standing over him, glaring down at him in a venomous manner. He was a good few inches taller than the Corporal, who felt his stomach contract somewhat due to fear.

"Just checking over the listings, sir," he said, trying to sound composed, but the Lieutenant wasn't convinced. "We lost another 3 people in the last two hours-"

"Been going over my head, have you Corporal?" asked the lieutenant, venom creeping into his voice.

"W-why would I do that, sir?" replied Greene, trying to remain composed. "Everyone knows not to go over your head-"

"You can say that again," said Fletcher, leaning in closer towards the Corporal's face, who had to lean back to keep his distance. Sweat was forming on his forehead now. "I've more important matters to attend to Corporal, but if I find out that you have been going over my head, then I'll string you up by your neck, do you hear me?"

Greene nodded slowly, showing that he'd heard loud and clear. After that, Fletcher turned on his heel and stalked away, back towards the command tent where Colonel Adams was waiting for him. The Corporal only breathed out when his commanding officer was out of sight, and then he walked over to the shade behind a storage container, pulling out his cell phone and keying in a familiar number.

The answer came after a few rings. "Yes?" asked the voice of his employer on the other side.

"You said you'd take care of Fletcher," said Greene, is voice tinged with equal parts fear and anger.

"Oh my, didn't your parents ever teach you the proper manners?" asked the other voice, the sarcasm evident.

"Screw you!" snarled Greene, his patience running out. "You said you'd take care of Fletcher, but now he was Colonel Adams on his side, by the looks of it!"

"Is that so?" asked the voice, ignoring Greene's angry remarks. "Then perhaps a more direct approach is needed."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Greene, feeling a little uncomfortable.

"Simple," replied the old man. "We kill him. Fletcher and the other two you told me about before."

"What?!" hissed Greene. "I agreed to kill those two civilians, but not my own commanding officer!" He had a sick feeling that if he killed Fletcher, that he'd come back from the grave somehow, hunt him down, and kill him.

"Do I sound like I care?" asked the older man, his voice plain aggressive now. "You work for me, so you'll do exactly as I say, you lowborn shit!"

Greene wanted to reach down the phone and strangle the man on the other side, the one that as far as he was concerned, had put him onto this path to a bad ending. But that wouldn't work out very well for him: you couldn't kill someone like that and just get away with it. He sighed in defeat.

"Fine, I hear you," he said instead, instantly deflated.

"That's a good boy," replied the older man. "Kill them all. Fletcher included. Fail me in this, and you won't last to the end of the month."

"Yes," said Greene, nodding. "I'll take care of it, Mr. Lindeman."

"That's the right answer," replied Mr. Lindeman, condescendingly. "I am needed again. Don't contact me unless it's an absolute emergency." And with that, the line was cut short.

Greene let the phone fall to the ground next to him as he slid to the ground, his back leaning up against the container behind him, his head buried in his hands. He wondered how he would get out of this almighty mess he had landed himself in. But there were only two ways out of it: he either killed three innocent people, or he blew his own brains out and ended it right there.

**A/N: Phew. This chapter seemed to take forever.**

**But anyways, I have some ideas for other stories I wish to work on at some point in the near future, most likely while I'm still working on the last chapters for this story. **

**One of these ideas is 'Tales from the Necropolis', a collection of short stories taking place during the Raccoon City outbreak, and following a range of characters trapped by the horrors created by Umbrella, some of which have already featured or will feature in this main story, and will likely expand on the back stories of these characters. **

**The other idea is a one-shot called 'The Rebirth', which deals with the final moments of Albert Wesker's life at the Arklay Labs, and his subsequent resurrection as a bad-ass with superhuman abilities and reptilian eyes. Since Wesker is due to make a major return in Resident Evil 5, I thought it would be appropriate to do something Wesker-related, for all the Wesker fangirls (and boys), out there, to celebrate.**

**And on another note, nearly 3 weeks until Resident Evil 5 is released. *explodes from barely-contained excitement***

**But I've rambled on for long enough. Until next time people, farewell! **


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22: The Brink

**September 28****th**** 1826 hours**

Darkness had truly descended now, the area illuminated by the several large spotlights set up around the area. Most of the refugees and passing visitors were asleep now, but the soldiers continued to be active, wandering the perimeter or the area, or watching the road into Raccoon City with night vision goggles, searching for any approaching threats. Corporal Tobias Greene stood in the shade of a single solitary tree, at the side of the road leading away from the city, minding his own business, as he had done since his last call to Mr. Lindeman.

The glow of a cigarette was the only thing that marked his presence, and it wasn't the first one he'd smoked in the last 10 minutes. Several used cigarettes littered the ground at his feet. He inhaled deeply, dragging on his current cigarette for several seconds, before he discarded it again, and reached for yet another one, blowing out a lungful of smoke.

Things had been fine until the morning of two days ago. His week had gone pretty swimmingly, until that morning, when he got that random phone call out of nowhere. The person on the other end of the phone knew his name, which freaked him out considerably, as was the fact that he'd received a package in the post, containing a brand new cell phone and a few other items, exactly as the voice had promised. Freaked out, he had hung up on the mystery caller and thought nothing else of it.

Until he heard the garrison had gotten a call to deal with a suspected hazardous waste incident at Raccoon City, which had turned out to be something else entirely, a fact that the mystery caller had also told him about. It was uncanny, how accurate the man's predictions were, and that was the fact that had freaked him out the most that day, and things had only gotten stranger as time went past. And out of the blue, the mystery man had phoned him again, on that new cell phone he had been posted: something niggling in his head had told him to bring that package along.

This time, the mystery man had introduced himself as Daniel Lindeman, someone who had keen interests in events occurring within Raccoon City at that very moment. Who he was, he didn't know, but the Corporal could swear that name was familiar to him- somehow. And all this man had asked of Greene was that he kept him informed of any developments that were happening at his assigned post, and in return he would have all of his problems dealt with. A statement like that would probably get alarm bells ringing for most people, but for Tobias Greene, he went for it. He was up to his eyeballs in debt, and if it wasn't paid off within a couple of weeks, he'd likely wake up washed up on a beach somewhere, his throat slit open.

But this…if he ever knew how things would have ended up, he would have said no. It wasn't meant to end like this, to be forced into murder. All he had to do was kill three people, he was told…but with so many soldiers wandering around the place, there was no way he'd be able to kill that many people and get away with it. He never for once imagined he'd have to kill Gordon Fletcher, his commanding officer and a man that he hugely admired, even if they didn't always see eye to eye on things.

But what choice did he have? If he didn't do this deed, he'd be a dead man, and if he did carry this deed, he'd still wind up dead. Death by loan shark or death by defying a powerful mystery man: neither choice sounded very appealing.

He reached into his pockets and bought out a .38 revolver, the other item that had been mailed to him the day beforehand. The serial number had been gouged away, and it had apparently been treated, so there was no danger of anyone being able to trace the weapon back to him should it be used. And it would be used, that much he knew. It felt as though it weighed a ton in his grasp, before he tucked it back into his jacket pocket.

He tossed aside yet another spent cigarette, the last in the packet. When he realised that he had none left, he stopped for a few seconds, just staring straight ahead of him, at some random point in the distance. And then he just broke down, tears streaming down his face, sobbing slightly. He buried his face in his hands and wondered how the hell his life had reached this point.

Back in the lobby, they saw that the crowd outside had increased considerably in size. At least a hundred zombies mobbed the door now, some of them just pathetically pawing at the glass, but most of the ones gathered around the doors were thrashing away madly and beating with all their strength, the second they saw humans walk into their point of view. The constant moaning rose up into a chilling choir.

"Come on, let's go," said Ben, noting Dean's uncomfortable expression. He was already walking over towards the locked elevator, but Dean stayed where he was, staring at the crowd.

At the very front of the horde, there was a young blonde girl, probably about 10 years at the most, her hair in pigtails. Her dress was saturated in blood, and her body marked by numerous wounds, including several claw wounds criss-crossing her upper body and stomach. Normally she should have looked so innocent, but now she just resembled another of the walking corpses surrounding her. He locked eyes with her, and she just stared at him, pawing at the glass, bloody drool running down the front of her chin at the sight of fresh meat.

He felt a pang of sadness in his heart, at how the poor child had been reduced to such a state, but he also felt intense anger, at the corporation responsible for this entire mess. When he got out of here, he would kill every one of them if he had to. He tightened his fists.

"Dean!" cried Ben.

"Coming!" shouted Dean back, turning to run after his friend. He approached the lift as Ben took out the key card he had acquired recently, swiping it through the card reader, and being rewarded as the green light above it lit up.

Both men sighed in relief as the lift opened up soon afterwards. It was fairly spacious, big enough to hold about 12 people at the most, and was constructed from flawless steel plating for the walls and floor, along with steel mesh grating for the ceiling, giving it a sterilised appearance. Eager to get moving, they both entered the lift and looked around. There were no controls, just a single console on the opposite wall, with an up and a down button on it.

"Let's go," said Ben, hitting the button on the console as soon as they were both inside, eager to get going. The doors shut silently, and then the elevator lurched suddenly as it started its descent.

"Wonder how far down it goes?" asked Ben, looking around at the featureless unit they found themselves in, listening to the humming of the machinery all around them.

"Who knows?" replied Dean, sitting on the ground, his back against the wall. He put his shotgun out before him and checked it over, making sure that it wouldn't jam on him again the next time he fired it. Ben stayed standing, but he leaned his AK and his shotgun up against the wall nearest to him, and stretched his arms up towards the ceiling, as far as he could manage. After a few seconds of silence, he spoke up again.

"Why did they do it?"

"Why did who do what?" asked Dean, as Ben sat down against the wall opposite him.

"Umbrella," explained Ben. "They built their entire legacy around messing with these viruses and creating all kinds of monsters…and for what? Money? The sadistic kick?"

"Who knows?" replied Dean, shaking his head and thinking back to what Nick had told them. "I think the only people who know for sure are Ozwell Spencer and James Marcus…and the latter's dead."

"Well Umbrella's the real monster, as far as I'm concerned," said Ben, staring ahead. "They should all be strung up by the necks, after this." He finished that last statement by gritting his teeth together.

"But they'd fight to the death to cover up their involvement in this whole mess," said Dean, fishing the memory device he'd been given some hours beforehand. The one with all of those dirty secrets on it. "Which is why it's vital we blow this all open: show the world what they really are."

"I agree with you on that," nodded Ben, producing his own memory stick. "No matter what happens, they can't get away with this. I'll kill every last one of them if I have to."

"That's the Ben I know and love," smiled Dean, and Ben smiled back at the comment. At the same moment, the lift suddenly lurched to a stop, nearly dropping Ben onto his rear, and the doors opened with a whoosh of hydraulics, catching them both by surprise.

"Here we go," said Dean, getting to his feet hurriedly.

"So this is going to be our final hurdle?" asked Ben, retrieving his weapons. "In that case, I say bring it on."

Beyond the elevator doors, there was a wide passageway stretching into the distance, towards a pair of large steel double doors. The walls and floor were made from cold industrial steel, the ceiling from panels of steel mesh, while exposed pipes and cables lined the upper parts of each wall. Somewhere nearby, there was the incessant humming of some kind of industrial fan. The two friends stared down the corridor for several seconds, half-expecting something to show its ugly face, but nothing happened.

"Let's go," said Dean, stepping forward. Ben followed after him without a word.

Their feet echoed on the steel somewhat, so anything lurking in the shadows would know they were coming. Within several seconds, they had reached the double doors, and it took both of them to push through them.

Beyond them was another room, cavernous in nature. It was in the rough shape of a square, at least 60 foot square in size, and the ceiling extended away above them, at least 30 feet at a guess. Huge spotlights built into the ceiling threatened to blind them, while various storage crates, both wood and steel, littered the area. Straight ahead of them was a pair of huge reinforced doors, marked with the words 'Maximum Security'. In addition, there was also a set of double doors on each side of the room, heavy steel doors much like the ones they had pushed through beforehand.

They looked around for a few seconds, taking in their surroundings. They never expected to see a place of this size below ground.

"Woah…" was all Ben could say, looking up at the distant ceiling. "This place must have cost a fortune to build."

"Umbrella makes billions each year," said Dean, examining some of the storage crates. All of them had the Umbrella logo printed on them. "This would probably just be a drop in the ocean for them."

"Well maybe that fortune could go towards compensating everyone affected by this shit," muttered Ben darkly. "That should put them out of business quickly." Dean didn't pay much attention, as his gaze was drawn to a blinking red object set on one of the walls. It was a small grey security camera, slowly turning through a small tangent and back again, on a constant loop. By the looks of it, someone could have been watching them right now…

The office was silent, aside from the impatient tapping of a single foot, as the lone occupant sat in his huge leather rotating chair, pondering what he should do next. The room was about 15 square feet in size, dominated by the huge oak desk and chair at the far end of the room, and with the two side walls covered in dozens of small video screens, showing live video feeds of practically every room and corridor in the facility. And it was a facility abandoned of life, aside from the inhuman creatures that now roamed around, searching for fresh meat to feed upon. But they couldn't reach him in here, not with the door locked.

He was a man in his early 40's, his sandy-blonde hair beginning to recede, his eyes a disturbing beige colour. His face was set into a grim expression, hardened by the wrinkles that were beginning to develop. He was a short, weedy-looking person, about 5' 8'' in height, and he wore a light grey suit that seemed to just hang off his body, consisting of a button-up suit jacket, dress pants, a white undershirt with a black tie, and complete with expensive-looking brown leather shoes and a brand-new, gold watch hanging on his right wrist.

His name was Malcolm Donovan, and he was the managing officer of Delta Storage and Research, Umbrella's largest storage facility within the city itself.

His family had a long and prestigious history with Umbrella: his grandfather had been one of the members of the original board of directors when the company had been originally founded, and his father had been one of the researchers who had aided James Marcus in his research into the Proginitor Virus, some years before. And now he had followed in their footsteps to become a senior member of Umbrella's considerable work force, even though it was more of an administration role rather than a research position. Unlike his relatives, he wasn't much of a scientific genius.

And he had a brother as well…Robert Donovan, who was to become the new head of the recently re-opened management training facility near to the forest labs. That was back in July, but then he heard that it had been destroyed, in an effort to prevent a T-Virus outbreak from spreading too far. So long without hearing anything from his brother…and then only to hear that he had been killed, after likely being infected with the virus and becoming a zombie into the bargain. There wasn't even a body to bring home to bury. And even after that loss the virus had still reached this city…those fools higher-up promised to prevent this, and they couldn't even do that!

As a result of that, he started to lose faith in Umbrella. 20 odd years of his and his brother's life serving the company, and how were they repaid? His family had dedicated the majority of their existence to the company, and this…this whole mess, was how they repaid them all?

When the shit first hit the fan, Donovan was able to get all of his staff underground and seal the entrances, including the freight elevator for bringing large shipments into the facility, and the regular entrance elevator, that lead up to the admin department's reception, but practically everyone used the freight elevator anyways: it roused less suspicion, especially if the public saw fully-armed security personnel coming and going as they pleased. And so at least 50 assorted researchers, security guards and maintenance staff, had taken cover below ground, while everything went to hell above them. It was the right decision; he had informed them all, since some semblance of Umbrella had to remain, to rebuild the corporation once this was all over. They'd done well in keeping everything a secret, but when there was an outbreak right on their doorstep, no amount of plausible deniability would make things go away.

He'd monitored the radio equipment to see if Umbrella gave them any further orders…but nothing came in, so he took it upon himself to continue Umbrella's work. He sent his men out into the city, in small groups of course so as to not waste all of them at once, if anything were to happen. And the results had been productive, to say the last. The day before, his men had brought back a specimen of a previously unseen B.O.W type, a creature resembling the Chimeras, but less human in appearance, more akin to some kind of warped cockroach than a fly. They'd also bought back reports of some huge Tyrant-like monster roaming the streets, and of nearly every other B.O.W developed by the corporation, all unleashed upon Raccoon City. The situation was bleak indeed, and showed no sign of getting any better.

But despite all that, Donovan still wasn't satisfied. His staff were becoming edgy and were demanding when they would be able to get the hell out of there. Most of them had families they were worried about, they said. Donovan had never let his family get in the way of his work, and he wasn't about to start now. Why didn't his staff see things the same way he did? They were all convinced that Umbrella had left them all there to die, and he was the only one who had faith. The company would save him. He had done so much for them, so they wouldn't hang him out to dry, would they?

At any rate, the others didn't understand, so he had made them all pay in the best way he knew how: he had released the T-Virus into the facility himself, hours beforehand. That would teach them all for defying him.

He'd watched them all die in turn on the video monitors, eaten alive by their zombified colleagues, cut to pieces by the Hunters's and other monsters running about; seen them trying to take cover by barring themselves into individual rooms, then being driven insane by what had happened and turning on one another with lethal consequences, as they pointed fingers as to who had spread the virus in the first place, before it all ended in a storm of desperate gunfire. All the while he had been locked safely within his office, in the maximum security area of the facility.

Some were at odds with his actions though: a few had managed to escape to the surface, and then they had cut the power to the elevators, so no-one would be able to follow after them…the gutless cowards. But as far as Donovan was concerned, it was more dangerous up there than it was down here, and he was content to stay where he was, while he tried to think of what to do next. He rested his left hand on a small steel case, about the size of a cigar box, and stroked it a few times, before he opened it up, and looked at the contents. An injector gun, and several glass vials filled with a pale white liquid.

Daylight. The cure to the T-Virus.

He'd always heard rumours of their being a cure in development, over at the University campus research area, but never believed them, until 3 days before, when he had been on a visit to the university, and had been given a box of freshly-synthesised samples to keep a hold of, in case 'the need for using them arose'. He didn't regard the comment that much at the time, but now, he knew fine well what the researchers there were talking about.

When news of the disaster at the Spencer Estate had filtered back to them, they had all been expecting the worst: the virus would eventually work its way to the city, but they didn't expect for it to happen this quickly. There should have been at least another month before things got anywhere near a city-wide outbreak. Had there been a fresh outbreak somewhere within the city? It seemed a reasonable conclusion to come to, considering how sudden the appearance of the zombie hordes had occurred.

He looked over towards the door, and at the body slumped just in front of it, its blood long pooled out a couple of hours before. It was Captain Becket, the head of his security forces, and one of the most vocal opponents to his decision to stay here rather than make an attempt to escape. So vocal in fact, he had actually pulled a gun on Donovan and tried to shoot him dead. In turn, Donovan had to defend himself, and had managed to kill Becket with a shot to the throat, even though he had zero formal training with a gun. Then he'd shot the dead man in the face a few more times, to make sure he didn't come back as a zombie, and also because he never could stand looking at Becket's smug face. The gun used to do the dirty deed was lying on the desk beside him, splattered with a few spots of dried-in blood.

So now what to do next? He could always make a run for the train platform in the east wing, normally used in emergencies. Becket's men had been planning to use it to escape the city, and as such the platform was stockpiled with weapons, ammo and other necessary supplies for leaving the city behind. The train would have taken them out to an Umbrella checkpoint a few miles outside the city, to safety. But they needed the master key to actually start the train up, and Donovan had it on him. And he was currently going nowhere right now.

He tapped his foot a few more times, and glanced over the video screens one more time. When he saw the one showing the entrance hall, he nearly jumped to his feet in surprise.

There were two people standing around in the hall, examining the various storage crates littered there. Two men, about the same age he guessed; one blonde and the other with brown hair, both in civilian clothes and armed with firearms, and both were covered from head to toe in blood as well.

Who the hell could have found their way down here? Unless they knew exactly what they were looking for in the first place…and that worried him. This place was meant to be secret for good reason: the only people upstairs who were supposed to know of this place were that fool Sanderson and a few of the other senior members of staff. Maybe they'd blabbed to someone, but still, why would someone bother coming down here in the first place-

"Umbrella," he whispered to himself. Who else would know how to get down here? He had failed them somehow, and they'd sent hired assassins down here to kill him. But why? He'd done so much for them over the years, dedicated his working life to serving their every whim, and this was how they repaid him? It was bad enough they put him in charge of a place like this, and gave the supervising role for the main lab to that inexperienced, condescending fool William Birkin.

But the last laugh would be on them. This was his domain, and they would die at the hands of the B.O.W's roaming the corridors long before they got anywhere near him. He could control anything he wanted from here. He smiled to himself and sat back down in his chair, turning away to look at the feeds on the opposite wall, showing the situation in the canteen, where a handful of zombies feasted upon the bodies of a pair of researchers, sprawled over the tables.

It was just a matter of watching and waiting. He smiled to himself, and then offered himself a demented laugh.

"If there's someone still down here, why haven't they shown themselves yet?" asked Ben, looking around.

"Maybe they're scared," reasoned Dean. "We are armed and covered in blood, after all."

"But we're also still human," pointed out Ben, a chill running down his spine. "I'm sorry Dean, but this whole thing creeps me out. I've got a really bad feeling about this."

Dean was inclined to agree with his friend. If people were still alive down here, where the hell were they? Could they be holed up somewhere, waiting for someone to come and find them?

Or were they were all already dead and this trip had been a gigantic waste of time? No, it wasn't. They still needed to find that cure for the damned virus before they left, even if this place was still crawling with the virus. He had that bad feeling Ben had described as well, even though he didn't say it out loud.

"Well either way, we still need to find the cure for the virus, or this'll all be for nought," he said, looking back at his friend. "We can't go back now."

"Suppose you're right," replied Ben, looking at a design on the wall near to him. Dean took a closer look, and realised that it was a map of the place, which seemed to cover a considerable amount of ground, with large west and eastern wings, and another area to the top of the map marked 'maximum security'.

"That cure could be anywhere," growled Ben, running a finger across the countless named areas on the map. "It's just one hurdle after another, isn't it?"

"It'll be worth it, keep telling yourself that," said Dean blankly, peering at the map himself. He could pick out several areas marked 'research' and 'B.O.W storage', neither of which sounded very appealing or safe. There were also a few places marked 'maintenance' and 'personal quarters', and one large area in the east wing marked 'aqua tank'. Why would they need an aqua tank down here?

"That looks promising," said Ben suddenly, pointing to a place in the west wing, marked 'armoury'. Dean was inclined to agree with his partner in that regard, and started to smile widely.

"Then I say we explore the western wing first," he said out loud, giving Ben a hearty pat on the back. He was moving away when Ben stopped him and pointed towards the huge double doors marked 'Maximum Security'.

"Wonder what secrets are behind there?" he asked.

"Let's worry about that later," said Dean, still walking towards the door into the west wing. "I doubt we can open it now."

"Really?" asked Ben, walking up to the huge doors and producing the keycard they had acquired beforehand. He went to swipe it through some kind of card reader, but after a minute of fruitless searching, he finally realised that there was none, just a small computer console off to the side, with a keyhole in it. The display simply read 'insert master key.'

"Looks like we need the master key to get in here, whatever that is," called Ben, walking back towards Dean.

"Maybe we'll find it when we're looking around," said Dean with a slight nod. "Now let's get this over with, if you don't mind." Ben was only too eager to agree, and the pair approached the door into the western wing. It disappeared into the ceiling with a whoosh of hydraulics as they got near. They stepped through the threshold, and the door shut with a similar sound, sealing them in.

The corridor looked the same as the one they had arrived in, all cold steel and exposed pipes and cables on the ceiling above them. There was a low humming somewhere, but they hardly regarded it as they walked down the corridor and turned the corner just ahead, into a longer stretch of steel corridor, that extended away from them for about 30 feet.

Halfway down, the floor was littered with spent bullet casings, and a discarded MP5 submachine gun. Both men stiffened up upon seeing the sight, and they approached slowly and carefully, their weapons raised. When they got closer, they could see deep gouges on the walls either side of them, caused by something incredibly sharp. Dean immediately thought of the Hunters they had encountered before. The area around each gouge was marked with smears of blood.

When he did, his mind flashed with the image of Mac's death, his throat torn open by razor-sharp claws, his blood pouring out onto the floor of the warehouse.

He shook his head quickly to rid himself of that image.

"Does that mean we have to do more fighting?" asked Ben, staring at the gouged walls, and then down at the spent MP5, also stained with blood.

"Looks like it," said Dean with a sigh. "We should be double careful." Then he looked around, and saw the two doors on either side of the corridor, both of a similar design to the one they had come through just now. "We each take one side of the corridor?" he then asked, out of the blue.

"Yeah," nodded Ben, looking over at the door nearest to him. "Turn over every stone, right?"

"Yep," nodded Dean in response. "Don't be too long," he added, as Ben vanished through the door he was stood next to. Turning away, he took a deep breath before he went through his own door.

The room was likely a dormitory, the wall across from him taken up by two bunk beds, fully made with clean sheets and bedclothes, aside from the bottom bunk of the far bed, where a man's corpse lay perfectly still, the majority of his face eaten off and blood splattered all over the bed clothes. Dean shivered a little and turned away from the sight, looking around the rest of the room, which was littered with various personnel items, but little of it looked remotely useful. The only thing that got his attention was an open journal on the table to his left, with hand-written notes in it. The most recent one was actually dated for today.

_September 28__th_

_What the hell's going on? This place was supposed to be secured, but now at least a dozen people have been showing symptoms of the T-Virus infection, even though there's no way in hell an infection of it could make it down here. The infected people have been quarantined in the alpha research lab, but Keegan, in the bunk above me, is showing early onset of infection, including the itchy skin and nausea._

_There's no point in us trying to fight it: the virus will infect us all sooner or later. But why the hell is Donovan just sat in his office and not doing anything about this? He was always an unstable personality, but maybe he really has lost it now. Captain Becket's gone to talk to him, so hopefully that'll straighten him out for a change. But we're doubtful of that…_

So the virus had gotten down here…he and Ben would likely have to fight their way through another truck-load of zombies and god-knows what else before they could leave this place. He just hoped there'd be enough ammo between them to get them that far. Looking around again, he found a serrated combat knife lying on top of the desk, its surface unflawed. Thinking it might be useful, he picked the blade up, turned it round in his hands a couple of times and tucked it into his belt.

BANG!

The gunshot sounded close by, but the thick walls of the facility absorbed the sound somewhat, so he didn't jump suddenly at the sound of it. Nothing left to do here; he turned and exited the room quickly, back into the cold steel corridor. Ben appeared shortly through the door on the other side, his Beretta in his hand.

"One of those freaks was in there, so I did him a favour," he said, darkly.

"Find anything useful?" asked Dean.

"No, it was just a storage room," said Ben, shaking his head. "Nothing in there but clothes, sheets and toolboxes."

"Well we got a lot more ground to cover," observed Dean. "We should keep going." Ben just nodded in response, even as they heard the familiar sounds of shuffling feet and dry moans, from somewhere ahead of them. They both readied themselves for a fight, even as their next opponents rounded the corner 20 feet ahead of them.

They were zombies, but quite unlike the other zombies they'd seen so far. There was three of them, and they all looked in a very advanced state of decomposition, their bodies practically skeletal in nature, the flesh peeling off of their bones. They advanced in awkward, stiff motions, as if they were scared their movements would make them snap like twigs. The face of the first one was practically caving in as well, its exposed nose and cheekbones marking a pure white contrast against its blackening flesh. Liquefied flesh actually sloughed off of their bones as they advanced, and the smell was probably twice as bad as regular zombies.

"Gross," muttered Ben, covering his mouth up, as the monsters drew closer.

"They won't smell any better when we're done with them though," said Dean, drawing his own sidearm and aiming down at the approaching enemies. Ben did the same after a short pause, and they both aimed down the corridor at the advancing monsters, ready to silence them for good.

Lenny Bristol sat on a medical cot, his legs dangling off of the side, as a pair of medics checked him over. He didn't have any deliberating injuries, aside from the odd nick and cut on his arms and torso, nothing too serious. His flak vest had been discarded and his shirt had been opened as the army personnel checked him over. He didn't even seem to take notice of them, he just stared ahead of him, a blank look in his eyes. He hadn't slept in a long time, but he couldn't bring himself to try and close his eyes, lest he be subject to those horrific sights he had witnessed so far.

A short distance away, the young people he had escaped with were talking quietly among themselves. The young boy Ryan, who had fought bravely to get all of them this far, was still unconscious, and that worried him a lot. He'd hurt his leg in a skirmish with a pair of monstrous dogs, but that wasn't from their teeth. He worried if the boy was actually infected, ready to turn at any moment-

He became aware of someone approaching him, and he glanced up to see a blonde-haired man approaching him, someone familiar to him. It was Travis, and he was here, just like Cameron had mentioned previously. He wanted to look pleased to see him, but he really wasn't in the mood to do anything now, not even raise a half-hearted smile.

"Hey Lenny," Travis said, looking a little concerned. "You allright?"

"I look allright?" asked Lenny, his voice dripping with sarcasm. And then he nodded slightly and finally made eye contact with Travis. "I mean…I fine, I'm alive at least. I wish we could have met in better circumstances…"

"Yeah, me too," nodded Travis. "What the hell's going on in the city? Cameron said you'd be able to explain things better." Lenny didn't say anything at first; he just looked down at his hands, which were starting to shake badly. He quickly clutched them together to stop the shakes, and breathed deeply. He didn't want to talk about what had happened in the city, he didn't want to relive his experiences.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his partner Jeff being killed by those freaks down at the barricade on Main Street, three days prior. Several of them had tackled him to the ground, biting into his flesh and pulling at him in a feeding frenzy. They had ripped him in half as he was still alive, screaming in agony, before it was finally ended as another one ripped his head from his body with a sickening crack. Lenny had watched the macabre scene in morbid terror, and now the image of Jeff lying there, in pieces as once-human creatures devoured him, was forever burned onto the back of his eyeballs.

That, and the sights he had seen in the halls and classroms of the high school…and what had happened at his home.

He opened his mouth to say something, but random words just stuttered out.

"Lenny?" asked Travis with concern. Lenny ignored him, just staring ahead. Then he stopped stuttering, swallowed, and then started talking again.

"They'd been these brutal murders taking place ever since the middle of July," he started, still staring ahead. "They died down around the end of July, but by mid-August they'd started up again. The press said it was some cannibal cult committing these murders, and we all believed them. But then a few days ago…it was no longer on the news. These 'cannibals', as the press called them, were swarming down the streets and smashing through your front windows. We couldn't do a damned thing. Most of us were killed at the barricade on Main Street…they just rolled over us like we were nothing. What the hell are you supposed to do when the guy you're shooting can take 30 rounds to the torso without going down?"

Travis just stood by, listening to Lenny's story. The look on his face said it all.

"I ran. Ran as fast and as far as my legs would take me. God knows why I ended up here, God knows why I'm till alive, when everyone else is dead."

"Lenny," whispered Travis at last. "Holy shit, I'm so sorry-"

"Don't be," said Lenny, cutting in. "It's not your fault this all happened. When I find out who is though, I'm gonna unload my gun into their damned face."

Travis was tempted to say something about Umbrella, but kept his mouth shut. That info was meant to be a secret to most people, so there seemed little point in talking about it now to some person who'd just been through the worst hell imaginable.

"What about Dean and Ben?" asked Travis, changing the subject.

"They were alive last I saw them," replied Lenny. "But that was 3 days ago. Are they still alive now? Who knows." Travis lowered his head and sighed in disappointment.

"Geez I'm so freakin' tired," Lenny said suddenly, rubbing his eyes. The army medics noted this and moved away, giving him some space.

"Then you should rest," advised Travis, helping the R.P.D survivor to lie down on the cot comfortably. "Don't let me get in your way of some well-earned rest."

"I'll try, but no promises," sighed Lenny, lying on his back and glancing over towards the other people he had arrived with, currently being tended to by more army medics. "At least I was able to get some people out alive, eh? Better than nothing. Even if I couldn't find my family…" Travis felt his heart tighten up at that last statement. He wished he could say something to help the R.P.D survivor feel better, but he had nothing to say- nothing at all.

"I gotta go man- make sure you get enough rest, allright?" he said instead.

"I'll try," replied Lenny, rolling onto his side and pulling his shirt around him. "If I ever get to sleep again in my life."

Travis wondered how many other people were in Lenny's plight, barely surviving some great disaster, and then being plagued by the horrific memories for the time after, unable to sleep for maybe years to come. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, heading back towards his truck, where Cameron currently was, making a phone call back home to let everyone know that they were still in one piece.

He'd made it about 20 feet there when he looked up and stopped where he was. In the half-light, there was a figure stood on the sidewalk, just outside of the passenger side window of his truck. He couldn't see the man's face, but he saw the camouflage clothing he was wearing, and the gun that was in his hand, pointing in through the window, at Cameron, who sat there, staring wide-eyed up at the weapon.

"Oh shit-" muttered Travis, already sprinting forward.

"Mom, I swear, we're fine," sighed Cameron with a half-laugh, his cell phone held to his ear. "We're just tired, that's all. And we're not the only ones…everyone here looks dead on their feet. This thing's wearing everyone down."

"That's good to hear," sighed his mother with huge relief, on the other end of the line. From what he had gathered, all of them had gathered at Dean's house, all of them waiting feverishly for good news of their sons coming back in one piece. He hadn't told them about their experiences in the forest though: no need to worry them any more than usual.

"It's all over the news though," she then added, her voice rising in pitch. "What could be going on in that city?"

"I don't know mom," said Cameron, though he had a pretty good idea by now, "but me and Travis aren't going anywhere till we hear some good news, you have our word on that."

"Oh, I know that son," laughed his mother. "Just come back safe and sound, both of you, you hear me?"

"We will mom," he said, smiling. "I gotta go now, get some sleep. I feel as though I'm about to pass out on the spot." After his mother had said her own goodbyes, he switched his phone off and slipped it into one of his pockets.

_Get some sleep…I wish._

He still couldn't get the image of those people out of his head…covered in blood, with peeling, pale skin and empty white eyes. They were certainly rather stomach-churning to look at, and from what he had been told, or what he'd gathered, most of the city had been overrun by those things. He dreaded to think what would happen if those things got outside the city, and if Dean and Ben were among them-

He shut that thought out of his brain right then and there, rubbing his face again. He shifted in his spot, wedged awkwardly into the passenger seat, trying to get into an ideal sleeping position, with little success, as it happened. He turned over and shut his eyes, but it wasn't doing much good. The constant background noise didn't help matters much.

Then he became aware of the fact that someone was just outside the truck's window, the same way that any person would suddenly feel another person's gaze on them. For a second he thought it was Travis, and he rolled over to see what his friend wanted.

"Something up dude?" he asked, blinking. "I'm trying to get some sleep here-"

The words caught in his throat when he saw the figure stood outside, half in shadow, the face obscured. He saw the flash of green camouflage clothing, but his sight was fixated on the gun that was in the figure's hand, pointing towards him through the open window. He stared at the cool steel object, as light glinted off of the side of the barrel.

"I'm sorry, but I don't have a choice," said a voice that seemed a little familiar to him, but he was too fixated on the gun in front of him, aimed at his head. A single bead of panic sweat rolled down the side of his head. He waited for the inevitable gunshot.

And then Travis came bursting onto the scene, barging into the gunman from the side and knocking him to the ground roughly.

BANG!

The side window above Cameron's head shattered and he leapt up as shards of glass rained down on him. Outside, Travis reared back, ready to strike the gunman with a clenched fist, but the gunman lashed out with his right arm, the weapon striking Travis hard on the temple, drawing blood and knocking him onto his back, before scrambling up and dashing off out of sight. Cameron was already out of the car and running around to check on his friend, who shielded a hand to his cut temple, scowling in anger.

"You OK?" he cried, stooping down to help him up.

"I'm fine!" shouted Travis angrily, looking around for the foiled assassin. "Where'd that fucker go?!"

"I didn't see!" cried Travis, as a few soldiers came running up in surprise. "What the hell was all that though?"

From out of sight, he heard the sound of several rifles being cocked and someone calling out.

"FREEZE!"

Lieutenant Fletcher tossed Mike Parkman's report down onto his desk and sighed in frustration. The northern barricade had been attacked by some of those 'things' from within the city and two men had been airlifted out due to the injuries received. But things were looking grim for them, either way. It was getting harder for them to contain this disaster it seemed: he'd already had reports of people actually entering the city using less-known roads that hadn't been barricaded yet, and as such even more lives were at risk. They didn't have enough bodies to cover all eventualities, and reinforcements were a no-go, according to Colonel Adams at least.

Speaking of which, the Colonel was currently on the radio unit in the corner, arguing with someone or other over the link.

"But sir, you can't be thinking of bowing to their-? What's that?" he stopped talking for a moment, and his face looked forlorn. He swallowed before he spoke again. "Yes, yes general, I understand. I'll spread the word." He hung up the radio piece and turned towards the Lieutenant.

"General Graves in a bad mood?" asked Fletcher, second-guessing what the Colonel was going to say.

"You don't know the half of it, Gordon," replied Adams. "Command's gone ahead and agreed to implement Mission Code XX." Fletcher was deadly silent for a few seconds, the implications of this statement sinking into him.

"You mean…final decontamination measures?" the Lieutenant asked, his normally reserved demeanour gone. He'd only heard rumours of Mission Code XX during his military career, and never expected to actually possibly witness one first hand. "But there could be people still left in the city! Is it really necessary to go this far-"

"Gordon, the President's already authorised the go-ahead."

"The President?"

If that was the case, then this was far more serious than he could even have imagined, and if so, had Umbrella had a hand in convincing him to take this radical decision? One that would mean sacrificing an entire town to prevent whatever was destroying it from spreading even further a field? If the corporation could even sway the President himself, then he could be way out of his league in defying them…

"An exact time for the strike hasn't been given yet, but I can imagine it can't be too far in the future," continued Adams. "We've stretched to the limit here trying to keep this contained, and we can't manage for much longer: you know that fine well."

Fletcher sighed in defeat. "I suppose I'm still allowed to disagree, right?"

"I don't like it either, Gordon," continued Adams, "but we don't have a choice. It's out of our hands now."

BANG!

The sudden gunshot from outside made them both jump in shock. It sounded very close, a bit too close for anyone's comfort.

"What the hell?" asked Colonel Adams, loudly. "Now what's going on?" Fletcher was already outside, looking around as several of his men were already jogging across to the other side of the area, their weapons readied. Many of the refugees had been jolted awake at the sound of gunfire, and some of them had gone into hysterics, shrieking and sobbing madly as the medics and other army personnel tried to comfort them, with little success. The loud noise had clearly bought back recent, unpleasant memories for them in an instant.

"FREEZE!" yelled the powerful voice of sergeant Dixon from out of sight, even as Fletcher started to follow after the rest of his men, pushing past some of them impatiently. He passed by a line of parked vehicles and emerged onto the edge of the open storage space on the far side of the motel, where several of his men had surrounded another lone figure, who turned this way and that, only finding a primed rifle wherever he looked. There was a gun in his hand, and an air of desperation in his movements.

"What the hell's going on?" barked Fletcher at the nearest soldier, who hastily filled him in.

"Heard gunfire sir," he explained, hurriedly, "found this guy making a break for it. We think he was trying to shoot one of the civilians!"

_Why would someone try to do that? At a time like this? _Thought Fletcher, as he looked at the surrounded man again, who turned to face him fully. Fletcher felt his heart drop when he saw who it was.

It was Greene, his face set into a mask of utter despair. He was sweating and shedding tears of desperation, and when he locked eyes with Fletcher, his despair was even more apparent.

"Tobias?" called Fletcher as he stepped forward a little, spreading his arms either side of him to show that he wasn't armed. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm sorry sir, but I didn't have a choice," said Greene, shaking his head slowly. "If I didn't do anything, they'd have me killed!"

"Who would?"

"I c-cant say!" cried Greene back, falling to his knees and clasping his hands to either side of his head. "I had no choice! Believe me! You have to!" he then cried, sounding almost pathetic, on the verge of hysterics.

"Just put the gun down, Tobias," urged Fletcher, holding his palms up towards the corporal. "I'd hate for all of these guys to have to shoot you." Greene looked at his superior for a few seconds, looking as though he were about to relent, but then he pushed himself back to his feet. The soldiers surrounding him tensed up at the movement, but still kept their composure.

"I'm sorry sir, but it's a Catch-22 thing," explained Tobias, shaking his head. "I didn't do it, he'd have me killed. And if I did do it, I figured I'd end up dead sometime in the future."

"Who Tobias?" asked Fletcher, trying to get to the bottom of his subordinate's behaviour. "Who'd have you killed?"

"I couldn't run away!" cried Greene, waving the .38 revolver he held around in front of him. The man just behind Fletcher tried to raise his rifle, but the Lieutenant smacked the gun away forcefully, giving the man a hard glare into the bargain. "You can't run away from a man like him! No chance in hell! I didn't want to do this, but I didn't have a choice sir!"

"What are you on about Tobias?" asked Fletcher, taking another step forward and stretching one of his hands out. "Come on, just give me the gun, and then we can talk about this. I'll make sure nothing happens to you."

Greene looked as though he was going to comply, and a silence descended, but then he straightened up and took a deep breath before he spoke again.

"I'm sorry sir, but there's no hope left for me. It was a pleasure to know you all."

Then he raised the gun to his head and prepared to pull the trigger.

"NO!" cried Fletcher, moving forward.

BANG!

The gunshot seemed to shatter Gordon Fletcher's world, as Tobias Greene's body crumpled to the ground in slow-motion. Some of the man's brain matter splattered onto his face. Somewhere in the background, he heard a few panicked shrieks from the refugees in the area behind him, and of the other soldiers moving in to retrieve Greene's weapon and checking his body, even though the hole in his head made it pretty clear that he was already dead.

He looked down at the still body as his men worked on securing the area, and then he glanced behind him to see Colonel Adams stood among the crowd that had gathered to see what had just happened. He looked somewhat surprised by what had just occurred. Then the Lieutenant looked around a little more, and he saw Cameron and Travis stood at the front of the crowd, the latter bleeding from a prominent cut on his head. Chances were they both had something to do with this. But he'd have to talk to them both later.

Quickly, he produced a handkerchief from one of his pockets and wiped the remains of Tobias Greene's brain off of his face, as his men looked nervously to him for some orders.

"Get him out of here," he said, sounding very distant. "Get him somewhere quiet, then maybe we can try and explain this."

Ben Campbell was frustrated.

They'd been down here half an hour, but it felt as though they'd barely made any progression at all. The zombies were down here in surprising numbers, where he believed it to be safe, but no longer. Most of them were of the naked kind, wasted beings that were literally falling apart as they walked, their ribcages and skulls visible to sight. And there were other, more normal zombies wandering around as well, dressed in black security uniforms, white lab coats, and even some wearing the light blue outfits of maintenance staff. He was stood over his most recent kill now, a blonde man in a white lab coat, his blue undershirt torn to shreds and one of his legs nearly chewed in half. Half of his skull had been blown apart by an AK-47 round.

He turned away from the body, just as Dean emerged from a nearby door, shaking his head. "Nothing in there aside from office supplies," he said sadly.

Ben nodded in recognition, and then turned his head to look at a steel plaque mounted on the wall nearest to him. The letters inscribed on it read 'B.O.W Storage/Research Wing Alpha', with an arrow pointing down the corridor away from them. Somehow, he didn't like the idea of going to a place where B.O.W's were stored.

"I still got a really bad feeling, y'know," he said finally, piping up. "There's something else down here, and not just zombies…"

"Yeah," I know what you mean," replied Dean, looking around and scratching his chin. "But we can't go back, not after coming this far."

"I know, " said Ben sadly. "But I just want to get out of here. How much further do we have to go before that becomes a reality? I don't think I can take anymore of this…" As he said those last words he leaned up against the wall behind him and slid down to the ground, clutching his hands to his head. Dean sighed himself and rubbed the back of his head.

"You don't think I want to get out of here as well?" he said eventually, sitting down next to his partner. "But I don't want to lose hope, not now…"

"How can you be so hopeful?" asked Ben suddenly, turning quickly on his friend. "Something like this…no-one should survive something like this! We should be dead 10 times over, and yet we're still here? Why is that? Why are we here while so many others are dead?"

Dean paused to think. His friend had a good point: they could have been the only humans left in Raccoon City, and they were still in one piece, fighting their way through to their supposed salvation. But there were countless others who should have been given the chance to escape: practically all of their comrades from the R.P.D came to mind initially, but so did the other people they had encountered so far. The survivors of the U.B.C.S also came to mind…Taylor, Nick, Devlan, Mac…all of them deserved a life. Maybe they had worked for Umbrella in a fashion, but not in an official regard, so they still deserved some respite from this horror.

"Maybe we should be dead," Dean answered. "Umbrella probably doesn't expect anyone to survive this mess, so I want to get out of this, so I can prove them wrong. And to make them pay for all of this…so it doesn't happen again. Don't you feel the same way?"

Ben looked at his friend for several seconds, the words sinking in, and then he managed a little nod, before he rose slowly to his feet once more. "Yeah…I see what you mean. I want to make those bastards pay as much as you do as well…but this is getting too much. I just want to get out of here."

"I know, believe me," smiled Dean, standing up as well. "Just keep with me a little longer, OK buddy?"

"I can do that," smiled Ben, already walking towards the unexplored passageway. "Come on, let's get going." Dean laughed a little as he followed after his friend.

The passageway turned a corner ahead, where a fallen zombie lay, the wall just above it marked with bullet holes and blood smears. The two of them started to slow down, moving more cautiously with their weapons raised, their footsteps echoing uncomfortably along the passage. Dean thought he could hear something akin to a low whispering just ahead of him, but he quickly dismissed it as quickly as Ben had reached the corner and stepped slightly out into the open.

RATATATATAT!

Bullets ricocheted off of the wall just above Ben's head, who then quickly dashed back into cover just as more bullets impacted against the far wall, throwing up sparks.

"Whoa!" cried Dean, as he made sure his friend hadn't been shot. "Was that someone shooting at you?"

"Sure as hell sounds like it!" growled Ben in reply. He tried to peek around the corner, but another burst of gunfire forced him to draw back yet again, as yet another bullet deflected off of the corner and embedded itself into the steel about an inch above Dean's head. That was enough to get his back up.

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE, WE'RE HUMAN!" he cried as loud as he could possibly manage, his voice echoing back the way they had come. There was a long silence in response, before a weak male voice called back.

"…who's there?"

"We're human, that's for sure!" called Ben in reply. "Now stop shooting at us for fuck's sake!"

Another silence.

"OK! You can come out now!" the voice replied. Glancing at one another, the two cops stepped out into the open, looking down the next stretch of corridor. It went down about 15 feet before opening out into a wide open space, where they could see a single man crouched down behind a makeshift barricade erected from a few storage crates, with several dead zombies laid out before it. The two men gingerly approached, stepping over the dead monsters and towards the barricade, where a man dressed in the black garb of an Umbrella security guard, clutching a blood-splattered AK-47, was stood.

"Oh shit…I didn't think anyone else was still alive!" he said, a bit too loud for measure. He had short blonde hair and scared blue eyes, which were darting back and forth in a panicky manner. His face was pale and his hair matted with blood and grease…he looked a right mess.

"Likewise," said Dean drolly. "What's your name?"

"P-Pete," the man answered finally. "But how'd you get down here? The elevator was meant to be down!" He didn't even bother to ask for their names, but Dean let it go: the guy probably had more important things to worry about right now.

"We restored the power," said Ben, to-the-point. "What the hell happened down here?"

"W-we stayed down here when everything went to shit," said Pete, the distress in his voice evident. "Watched it all unfold on the exterior cameras. Screwed-up shit man, for sure. And then Donovan started sending us out there in small groups. Wanted us to collect new B.O.W samples for the corporation. Most of us just wanted to get out of here, but he was having none of it. He shot Mike right in the face, just because he refused to go outside!"

Dean was silent as Pete told his story. From the sounds of things, this Donovan didn't sound very pleasant at all. And chances were they'd end up facing him at some point in the near future.

"We had no choice but to go out," continued Pete, his voice picking up speed, "bringing back specimens for the researchers to cut up. We just wanted to get out of here, but when Captain Becket went to try and talk Donovan round, it all turned to shit! Some of us succumbed to the virus, and most of us were coming down with the symptoms…and then next thing you know, it all turns to shit!"

"There anyone else left alive?" asked Ben suddenly.

"Hell if I know anymore!" snapped Pete forcefully, turning away and walking a short distance away from them. "My buddy James went off to find the armoury keycard an hour ago, but he hasn't come back! And Roy and a few others are still stuck in the eastern wing far as I know, but all the radios seem to be down! They could all be dead by now!"

Dean glanced around the area as Pete talked. It was then he realised that there were a pair of corpses lying next to Pete's feet, both of security guards, both bitten to death and covered in blood. Both also had perfect bullet holes in their foreheads…perhaps as a means to stop them coming back to life. Behind Pete there was a pair of large steel doors, painted red and with the message 'Emergency Access Only' written across them, and a small computer console to the left of it. Elsewhere, there was a black-painted door against one of the other walls; the word 'Armoury' imprinted across the top half of it. And next to that, another corridor stretched into the distance, before culminating in a junction.

"Look, I know you're freaked out," said Ben, stating the obvious, "but we need to find a cure for the T-Virus. Does something like that exist?"

"You're serious right?" laughed Pete. "They say that doesn't even exist."

Dean and Ben felt their hope crushed out of them.

"But Donovan visited the university lab the other week," continued the scared man. "There's a rumour they've been working on some kind of vaccine…and he bought something back, but he never said what it was."

That lifted their spirits a little. This guy might not have known exactly what it was that Donovan had bought back with him, but it was still worth a look, if there was any chance of finding a cure for the virus ravaging the city.

"What's through there?" asked Ben, pointing to the large doors near to them.

"That leads to the emergency train platform," explained Pete. "It leads to a place a few miles outside the city limits. Quite a few of us wanted to leave when things turned ugly, but Donovan insisted on us all staying put and 'doing the corporation's bidding'. We didn't like it, but what else could we do?"

_A way out, _thought Dean gladly. At least now they had some way of getting out of the place when they were finished here, but they still had a lot of ground to cover.

"How handy, Umbrella employees having a direct route to escape the city," said Ben snidely, kicking the bottom of the nearest door. "How do we get in?"

"It only opens with the master key," said Pete, ignoring Ben's first comment. "And Donovan always keeps it on him, and he's in the maximum security area.""

"Great," muttered Dean, shaking his head. "OK, how do we get into the maximum security area?"

"Only the master key can get you in-"

_Well that's just friggin' marvellous, _Thought Ben to himself.

"-but there's a way to manually override the locks, I've heard," continued Pete, noting the two men's look of disappointment. "Roy knows more about that kind of stuff than me…hope he's still alive somewhere."

"He'd better be, otherwise we're screwed," said Dean dryly. "But first thing's first, what's this armoury keycard look like?"

"Uh…deep black thing, has two white X's on it," said Pete. "Wait, you're not thinking of going any further, are you?! That's where this all started!"

"We don't really have a choice," said Ben, already drawing his AK-47. "We're gonna run out of ammo soon if we don't get in there."

"Come on Pete," said Dean. "Come with us. You know this place, and there's always safety in numbers, right?"

"Oh hell no!" cried Pete, shaking his head repeatedly. "I'm not going anywhere, not with the place still crawling with those fucking B.O.W's! I'm staying here where there's no damned monsters!"

"If you stay here, then they'll find you sooner or later!" argued Ben firmly. "Stay with us and there's a better chance we won't get cut to pieces or eaten alive!"

"No way man!" snapped Pete back, shaking his head vehemently. "I'm staying here near to where all the guns are!"

"Suit yourself then," said Dean, stopping himself from adding 'you gutless coward' onto that sentence. "You stay here and hold the fort. We should be back soon. Come on Ben, we should get going."

"Allright then," said Ben, still making eye contact with Pete, before he finally turned away and walked down the corridor behind his friend. Pete watched after them for a few seconds, before he hunkered down behind his makeshift barricade, muttering to himself.

"Damned crazy bastards…"

"Poor guy," mused Ben when they were out of sight. "He must be scared witless."

"A lot of people would," replied Dean. "But if he stays where he is, he's as good as dead!"

"I doubt we can convince him to come along…and he's an Umbrella employee," continued Ben. "Maybe he'd deserve it if he got killed. They all deserve it after causing this mess."

Dean sighed. Normally Ben would never have made a comment like that, but now it seemed as though the outbreak had sucked his old attitude right out of him, turning him into some empty shell of his former self. But then Dean supposed he had changed himself. Quiet and serious, he'd usually let his friend take the lead on most things, but now he'd found himself having to act first and foremost to try and save even one person from this almighty mess. Then he supposed that people could change in dramatic circumstances: and recent events could be considered dramatic.

"Come on," he then said, indicating the junction they were stood next to. "You want the left or the right?"

"Right," said Ben, hefting his AK-47. "Hope you don't mind."

"Course not," said Dean, shaking his head and smiling. "Just don't be too long, OK?"

"I don't plan to be," replied Ben. "And if things get too hairy?"

"Then we meet back up here," said Dean. "It's better if we make a stand where we can't be attacked from both sides."

"Makes sense," nodded Ben. "Well, I'll see you soon." And with that, he turned and walked a short distance away, disappearing into the first sliding door he came to. Dean nodded to himself, before he turned and went his own way.

He'd watched their every move on the cameras throughout the facility, tracked them as they'd made their way towards the area outside the access area, fighting past the numerous zombies they had encountered with ease, and finding one of the security personnel still in one piece. It wouldn't last though, that much he was certain of. It wasn't just the zombies wandering about: several Hunters and other B.O.W's were on the loose, and along with that, several Re3's were also lurking around, using the vents to travel through the corridors and attack from unexpected angles. He'd never seen fully-developed Re3's in action before, so it was a pleasure to see them now.

The way they moved, homing in on the nearest point of sound, was almost poetry in motion. And they way they killed, their claws and lance-like tongues slicing through skin, bone and muscle alike. The looks of agony on his staff's faces as they fell to the ground, bleeding out, was incredible to watch. They had got exactly what they had deserved for defying him…this was his domain down here. He was above even God Himself down here: he made the laws.

Malcolm Donovan smiled to himself as he thought of his staff's deaths, but then he restrained himself and looked at the cameras again, swinging around in his seat, searching for those intruders. It didn't take him long to find the blonde-haired one, entering one of the research labs, in time to see a Hunter standing over the dissected corpse of a researcher. As the beast turned, he destroyed its head with a burst of AK-47 fire, bursts of yellow causing spurts of pure crimson from its torso. The cameras had no sound, so the beast made a silent scream as it dropped dead.

He found the brown-haired one after a while, searching through another lab area, picking up random bottles and beakers of strange-coloured liquid and examining it, before putting them back down. He was searching for something, but what? Unless-

It had to be the Daylight. It was meant to be a well-kept secret among most Umbrella employees, with only a select few knowing about it. If the corporation got a hold of it, they'd be able to mass-produce a vaccine and could perhaps prevent something like this occurring in the future. It made perfect sense. But if they wanted to take it, they'd have to come and get it, and he'd be safe as long as he was inside his office. The Daylight was precious, entrusted to him, and he'd keep it that way, whatever it took. He closed the small box containing the samples again and pulled it closer across the desk to him.

He watched the camera outside the train platform access, where that security guard, Pete, remained, rooted to the spot, constantly glancing around for danger. Unfortunately for him, he failed to notice the thing crawling out of the vent on the ceiling just above and behind him, falling with a cat-like grace to the ground.

About 15 feet away from him, a steel door slid open and a zombie with pure-crimson skin shambled out. It was a man in a white lab coat, tattered and splattered with blood, the sleeves torn away to reveal the blazing red flesh and long finger claws. A pair of shattered spectacles hung off of its twisted nose, and it was breathing harshly, the hot breath visible in the air. It looked one way and the other, and then when it saw its prey, it broke into a brisk jog.

A single shot rang out, and the monster crumpled backwards, falling against the wall and then sliding down, leaving bloody red smears against the steel. Ben sighed and put his sidearm away again, before he approached where the creature had emerged from, stepping over its fallen form. The door slid open again as he approached, and he peered his head inside, before stepping inside fully.

It looked like an autopsy room, with a trio of steel tables laid out in the middle of the room, and a counter on the far side covered in sterilised sheets and various implements. Most of them were coated in dry blood, and the faint stench of blood and chemicals lingered in the air. The shelves on both sides of the room were both occupied with jars filled with sickly green liquid, most of them with animal organs floating inside. Two of the tables were unoccupied, but the third one, in the middle, was covered in a grey sheet, a human-shaped form laid out beneath it. Ben felt the apprehension rise in his gut as he stared at the covered form.

He took a few steps towards the table, his hand resting on the grip of his Beretta, lest he had to draw it. He half-expected the covered creature to leap up as he approached and suck his eyeballs out. He reached out with his left hand, holding onto the sheet firmly and pulling it away a few inches. A pair of feet, wearing black sneakers, were exposed at the bottom of the table. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the rest of the sheet away in one motion, stepping back and aiming his Beretta at the body. It didn't move, but the mere sight of it was enough to make him feel sick.

It was a human allright, a young kid barely 18 years old, clad in blue jeans, a black t-shirt with a demon skull design on the front, a blue puffer jacket and dark sneakers. He'd been shackled to the table by his wrists and ankles, and his young face was locked into a horrific scream, eyes wide open, mouth like a window into hell itself. His light blue eyes showed the sheer terror he'd experienced before dying. But that wasn't the worst part. That came as Ben looked up at the boy's head region.

The skull had been sliced open, cleanly, a perfect bowl of the upper skull, shaved bare of hair, lying just a couple of inches away from the original owner, the inner part stained with blood. The boy's brain had been exposed to sight, the pinkish, contoured flesh starting to dry out. A large hypodermic needle was laid out a few inches away, the needle tip marked with blood and the actual needle filled with a milky white liquid. A huge number of clamps surrounded the area where the skull had been cut off.

Ben stared at the sight for a few seconds, before he felt queasy, quickly turning away and retching, bent over his knees, suppressing the urge not to throw up. After a few deep breaths, he turned back towards the body. Who the hell could do this to this kid? The same depraved minds who created a lethal biological virus, of course, he had to remind himself. Then he looked at the boy's face again, and something finally clicked inside him. The boy's face was familiar.

It was Jason Bartlett, the son of one of the city's richest families, who had gone missing about a week ago in a rather high-profile incident. Half of the police force, including Ben himself, had been involved in the search for the boy, across the entire city and even the forest just outside the city limits. And now it looked as though he had discovered why he hadn't turned up: he'd been dragged underground by Umbrella employees and turned into one of their little 'projects'. How depraved could these bastards get?

He saw a clipboard lying on the side near to him, and he picked it up to have a closer look. It was a handwritten report, and it was dated the 24th of September.

_Extraction Report C#3_

_Operating Researcher: Raymond Jones_

_Supervisor: Malcolm Donovan_

_Subject was picked up on the North side of town in the early hours of the morning of the 22__nd__, coming out of a nightclub with several others. He proceeded to walk home alone, at which point our people picked him up and bought him home. He complained a lot about how his parents knew the mayor, but he was still going to take part in our test. _

_As mentioned in one of our earlier reports, we heard of how staff at the Sheena Island facility have increased the production rate for their Tyrants by extracting and utilising the substance 'Beta Hetero Nonserotonin', something I had actually never heard of until recently, but apparently it's a chemical found in the brains of pubescent teenagers, those between the ages of 14-20. And this boy was the ideal age. _

_Unfortunately, the only way to produce a significant amount of this chemical is to trigger a sense of incredible terror in the subject. That is, to perform the operation without an anaesthetic, while the person is still conscious. I know I had no choice but to do this operation, but still…that boy's screams as I cut through his skull will never leave me for as long as I continue to live. _

_But the experiment was a success. We extracted plenty of BHN from the boy's brain, and plans are already underway to bring more test subjects to us so we can start to develop new strains of Tyrant. I've resigned myself to the facts…after partaking in all of this, I'm going straight to hell when I die. _

Ben threw the file down and shook his head. This poor kid had just gone for a night out with some friends. And then he was spirited away, and had his skull cut open, while still alive, just so Umbrella could further develop their secret research. He rubbed his face as well. He just wanted to get out of here, away from all of this madness surrounding him.

Then he heard the gunfire back from where he had come from. The sound of an Ak-47 being discharged, before it quickly cut off after a few bursts. He stood still for a few seconds, before he realised who it could be opening fire…Pete.

Quickly, he charged back into the corridor, back the way he had come, and within several seconds he was back at the junction leading to the area outside the locked armoury. The place was strangely quiet, but the faint trace of gunsmoke lingered in the air. He clutched his own rifle tightly as he walked towards the corner of the hallway, not sure what he was about to see, but chances were it wouldn't be a good thing.

He poked his head around the corner, into the space filled with the dead bodies, blood, and empty shell casings. Pete was lying crookedly in the middle of it all; his back slumped up against the barricade, his eyes wide open and in shock. His throat had been torn open with a single, precise blow from some kind of sharp object. He continued to hold onto his weapon, even in the afterlife, as though to protect himself even in death itself.

"Oh geez, Pete…" he muttered to himself. 

At the sound of his voice, there was the dull metal clang of something moving about in the ventilation duct above him, causing him to jump up and aim his own rifle upwards. He took a few quick breaths, as something clanged further down from him, and he aimed at the source of the sound, where the vent cover had been knocked away, exposing a small square of darkness, beyond which anything could lurk.

_Now what? _He thought to himself. As he did, he heard the other sound.

It sounded like a human gasping, albeit a long, drawn-out gasp that sounded as though it was someone on the brink of passing out, or like the hissing of steam. But something about it sent a serious chill down Ben's spine. Something about it seemed so…inhuman. Or maybe he was just imagining things now, after seeing so much horrific sights. But why would a dying person be so far up, in the ventilation duct of all places?

His rifle seemingly glued to his right shoulder, he peered into the black square, but couldn't pick anything out. Reluctantly, he called out.

"Who's there?"

There was a wet sliding sound, and something long and pink uncoiled from the darkness, lashing out towards him like a whip, clearing the space of 15 feet in less than half a second.

_Holy-_

The object lashed him across the shoulder, ripping through his jacket as though it were nothing, and through the top layers of skin. The pain was so sudden, he yelled out in pain and surprise and fell back, his finger pulling the trigger, sending a burst of gunfire into the wall just to the side of the vent opening, throwing up sparks. The pink object retracted back into the darkness in the blink of an eye, with the sound of something wet being dragged against a solid surface.

"What the hell was that?!" he blurted, looking at the tear in his clothing. His skin had been marked, that much was certain, but blood hadn't been drawn, luckily.

The pink object lashed out yet again, reaching across the room at him, striking the wall just a few feet above his head. The steel was left with a clean tear right across it. Whatever that thing was, it was razor-sharp.

Gritting his teeth, he fired into the vent opening as the whip-like object retracted. One of the bullets struck it, causing it to spasm, and electing a piercing shriek from some unknown horror lurking out of sight. The object quickly whipped back into the darkness, and Ben forced himself to stand, just as something crawled out of the vent and onto the ceiling with unusual speed.

He stared up at it, boggle-eyed. His rifle was shaking in his hands as he traced the thing's movement.

_Oh God…now what?_

It was about the size of a human, though it seemed to lack skin. Its entire body surface was just sleek, sinewy muscle, its hands and feet replaced by viscous-looking claws about 3 inches long. The thing's brain was also exposed, and as it moved its head to look down at him, he realised that it had no eyes. Its face was just another mass of sleek muscle, no trace of any distinguishable features, aside from a mouth filled with jagged, broken teeth. It opened its mouth, and issued another long, drawn-out gasp, the same sound he had heard before. Something long, pink and slender unfurled from its open jaws, extending out several feet and waving from side to side, trailing saliva and drops of blood behind it.

Its tongue. The monster's tongue was several feet long, and was presumably the object that had nearly sliced his head off just before.

_Oh boy…_

The monster's tongue retracted back into its mouth, and it detached itself from the ceiling, flipping over in mid-air with cat-like grace and landing perched on its four limbs, ready to strike.

Crying out in shock, Ben raised his rifle and fired. All 3 bullets impacted against the monster's back, sending gouts of blood up with each hit, but the monster only flinched and cried out in response. And then it reared back, holding one of its clawed arms up in preparation to attack, shrieking madly as it launched itself into the air.

Swearing, Ben dropped into a forward roll, barely passing under the creature, falling forward into Pete's corpse and then rolling off onto his back. The skinless beast had landed perfectly, and now it was already swivelling around to meet him again, its eyeless face locking onto him.

_It's got no eyes, how the hell does it know where I am?!_

He didn't stop to ponder anymore. Still on his back, he aimed down at it and fired again. This time, his bullets hit it in a vital spot, and it flopped onto its back, screaming and thrashing about as it lived out its death throes. It finally stopped after a few seconds, blood pooling beneath its still form. He struggled up to his feet, breathing harshly as he considered the new beast he had just slain. He aimed his AK-47 at its face, lest it try to get up again.

"Holy…where the hell did that come from?" he asked himself, looking up at the open ventilation cover. "From the vents?" he looked down at the fallen beast, at its clawed limbs, and more importantly, at its snake-like tongue, which now curled itself up, like a snake trying to defend itself. What was it supposed to be? Some bastard combination of a person and a chameleon?

He looked up again, and froze when he saw another skinless beast hanging from the ceiling, right in the far corner away from him. It just stared at him silently, before its mouth opened and it let its tongue hang out, towards the ground below it. A long trail of saliva trailed to the floor, excited by the sight of a fresh meal.

Ben swore, swinging his rifle upwards.

Dean read the label on the beaker of yellow liquid he was currently holding. The name he couldn't even pronounce, and he'd never heard of it either. Times like these he'd wish he'd paid more attention in science class at high school. He sighed and dropped it back onto the counter, pushing it away from him. This was feeling like a huge waste of time.

This was the third lab he'd searched through now, and had found little of interest, or rather, things he didn't fancy messing around with. All the labs looked the same, the glass worktables littered with beakers of brightly coloured liquid and equipment, and various fumigating chambers still containing remnants of recent experiments.

It would help if he knew exactly what he was meant to searching for, but the numerous lab papers littered around didn't help him much: just random gobble-le-gook about the various tests the researchers were undertaking, but nothing about a mention of daylight.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the anti-viral pills he'd been carrying around, the penultimate one, to be exact. He dropped it into his mouth and swallowed, feeling it roughly in his throat. He wished he had some nice cold water to wash it down with, to quench his thirst, but he didn't have that luxury at the moment.

He walked back out into the corridor. He'd encountered no monsters as of yet, though Ben obviously had, as he could hear the faint gunshots from fairly close by. And he could sense something in the air, not just the rotten stench of zombies. There was a bad feeling, as though the very worst this place could offer was yet to come, that things wouldn't be as easy as he first imagined. This place was meant to be pretty big, but he felt as though he'd barely covered even a fraction of what constituted this place.

He shivered slightly and pulled his jacket closer to him. It was pretty cold down here as well, he had to admit. Was that because of all the steel, or how low down they were below ground? He thought getting off the streets would be the end of feeling cold, but clearly not.

He heard another burst of gunfire, but it sounded closer than the last few. He stopped and turned back the way he had come, listening. He heard some more bursts of gunfire, definitely closer than before. Had Ben run into trouble? He was confident that his friend would be able to get himself out of trouble, but then again something else in his mind told him that he could have ran into something they'd never seen before, and needed the extra firepower to help him out. Loading his shotgun, Dean started to pace back the way he'd come.

He'd barely turned the corner and made it 12 feet down the corridor when-

CRASH!

One of the vent covers fell down from the ceiling, causing Dean to step back, nearly jumping out of his skin as it did. But then he quickly fixed his aim towards the thing perched atop of the fallen vent.

His eyes took in its appearance in a matter of seconds: the sleek red muscle that made up the entirety its body surface, the clawed hands and feet, the exposed brain tissue. But mostly, his eyes fixated on its long, sleek tongue, which coiled and waved about in the air around its head, like a snake ready to strike. Dean's eyes followed its every move, like it were hypnotising him.

"What the flying-" he started to say.

At the sound of his voice, the tongue suddenly lashed forward like a whip, wrapping around his right wrist and clamping down on him, with the force of a fully-grown gorilla, it felt like. He felt the circulation cut off instantly, forcing him to drop his shotgun suddenly.

"Ah!" he cried, as the creature nearly yanked him off of his feet. He tried to pull back, but he didn't pull very far, since the beast seemed to have an unusual amount of power in its whip-like tongue. It had anchored itself to the ground with its claws, so it had a firm point to pull from. Whereas Dean, on the other hand, was feeling himself losing his purchase on the steel floor, and he'd be pulled off of his feet sooner or later. And when that happened-

He tried to grab a hold of its tongue with his other hand, but the organ was dripping with saliva, and he couldn't get a good grip on it, his fingers slipping off every time he tried to close his fist around it. He couldn't do anything to get it off him.

Having a flash of memory, he grabbed for the combat knife tucked into his belt, ripping it out in his clenched fist and hacking down on the creature's tongue. The blade didn't go straight through, but there was a spray of blood and the beast shrieked madly in pain. Gritting his jaw, Dean raised the blade once more and hacked down with even more force, and this time it hacked straight through the pink organ.

The skinless monster shrieked again, much louder this time, as its tongue whipped back towards it, the flailing motions scarring the steel walls as it retracted back towards the fanged mouth, trailing blood behind it. Dean glanced down at the severed length of muscle that dropped off of his wrist, before he dropped the knife, drawing his Beretta and opening fire. He unloaded an entire clip towards the wailing beast that had tried to kill him.

Several shots punched into its exposed torso, sending blood streaming into the air, until a lucky shot struck it in the exposed brain, and it flopped to the ground, its cries silenced forever, but he continued to unload the rest of the magazine into its twitching form, until he was positive that it wouldn't be getting back up again. Once the gun's slide finally locked back into place, he lowered the gun and started to take a few breaths.

He looked down at the dead monster, blood pooling beneath its ventilated form. The thing's tongue, still hanging out of its open mouth, trailed away a few feet, a tiny blood puddle forming at its severed tip. He looked up at the walls again, noticing the deep grooves cut into the steel, and then down at his wrist, still dripping with monster drool. The clothing had been shredded, and blood had actually been drawn, seeping through the broken skin.

So its tongue happened to be razor-sharp as well, he mused, looking down at the severed length of pink tongue, which had now curled itself up in death.

"This just gets weirder and weirder," he sighed to himself, reaching for a fresh handgun magazine. He noticed that his left hand was shaking as he produced the fresh magazine. He took another deep breath to himself as he slammed the clip home, and primed the hammer back, ready to fire. Then he stooped down, retrieving the combat knife.

He heard some more gunfire from ahead of him, getting his full attention. Stopping to retrieve his shotgun, he ran off again, hopping over the body of the skinless beast in one single motion.

He rounded the corner back to where the armoury was, and now the gunfire was much more apparent, only a few feet away from him now. He stepped out into the open to see Ben standing there, firing his Ak-47 up at a red form scuttling up the wall closest to him.

"Ben!" he cried.

"Watch out Dean!" cried Ben, not taking his eyes off of the wall. "They're everywhere!"

Dean turned his head to see a snarling maw just a few feet away from him. He hopped back in shock and raised the weapon to bear, pulling the trigger into the bargain. The thing's head erupted, and its body fell to the ground with a wet slap. He turned away from it, to see another one, blood still dripping from recent wounds, scaling up and across the high ceiling, making a noticeable _click _sound as its talons made contact with the steel surface.

Ben switched his aim and fired one last burst at it, striking it between the shoulder blades with all 3 rounds. The creature shuddered, and then lost its grip, falling from its perch and landing on its back with a sick 'snap' of its spine breaking in half. The beast's upper half thrashed around a few times, and then it was finally silenced as Dean lowered his shotgun and removed its head with a single blast.

As the sound of the shot rolled away from them, Ben lowered his arms, panting for breath. His face was dripping with beads of sweat, and some spots of fresh blood were on his shirt front. He was still panting a little as he fumbled to remove the magazine from his weapon, letting it clatter to the ground, and reaching around for a fresh one, a blank look in his blue eyes.

"You allright buddy?" asked Dean, and it was only after he spoke that Ben finally thought to say something.

"What…what the fuck were those?!" he asked, in between gulps of air. "As if things weren't bad enough already!"

"They're damned ugly, that's what," replied Dean, looking down at the closest monster's corpse.

"They had no eyes!" continued Ben, waving his rifle around randomly, walking up to the nearest wall. "They have no eyes, so how the hell could they know where we were?!"

_Good question, _thought Dean, thinking of the tongue-beast which had nearly ripped his hand off a short while before. It had no eyes at all, but yet its tongue struck with unmatched accuracy. Not even the best military sniper could shoot that well, he imagined. Maybe the efforts of Umbrella's research had endowed these skinless beasts with some sixth sense they hunted with? Or maybe their eyes were invisible? He didn't really care anymore, to be honest.

He looked around again, and saw Pete lying dead against the barricade, his throat sliced open. Poor bastard, he thought.

"Oh geez," Ben then said, leaning against the wall and rubbing his face, before looking at the rip in his clothing, from when he'd first been attacked. "Good thing that didn't cut too deep…"

"Well good for you," said Dean sardonically, looking at his right wrist, where the blood from the fresh cut had now ringed his entire hand, making it look as though he were wearing some morbid form of bracelet. When Ben saw it, he quickly walked over, looking concerned.

"Geez, you allright?" he asked, already reaching for the vial of green herb powder he had on him. Dean waved a hand dismissively, but still let his friend treat his wound either way.

"I'll live," he sighed, pulling back the sleeve of his jacket to fully expose the wound. "That did give me a shock though, how fast that damned thing could move."

"I know," nodded Ben, applying the powder to the cut, the fizzing of the powder doing its magic cutting through the air. "We gotta be more careful from now on- what else could be out there? Something much worse?"

"Don't get my imagination started," muttered Dean, biting his lip and resisting the urge not to scratch as his rapidly-healing wound. "Besides, I don't think we should stay here much longer." That last statement was punctuated by him glancing at one of the dead tongue-beasts, a lake of blood formed under where its head would usually be found.

Donovan cursed to himself and sat back in his chair, running his hands through his hair.

They'd managed to kill those damned Re3's by themselves, whether through sheer dumb luck or some highly attuned survival instincts…no, it was the second reason. Malcolm Donovan didn't believe in luck: mankind made its own fortune in life. These two men, their natural instinct to survive must have been considerable, for them to survive an attack from a pack of Re3's. But there were always more B.O.W's where they came from, and there was still a lot of ground to cover before those men could reach him.

He looked down at his laptop, where some time before he had used the cameras to take a snapshot of the two intruders, feeding their images into the city-wide database to see who they were, and it hadn't taken very long for some results to be returned to him.

Ben Campbell and Dean Travers. Both members of the Raccoon City Police Department, as it happened, which explained why they were so proficient with firearms, and why they had a modicum of survival training. Both ideal candidates for Umbrella assassins as well, he concluded. But it still wouldn't serve them very well in the foreseeable future, he reckoned.

He stood up again, removing his suit jacket and dropping it over the back of his chair, and then he did the same with his tie, undoing the top button of his shirt as well. He also undid his shirt cuffs, rolling up the sleeves to his elbows. He'd only just noticed how hot it had been getting in the room lately. Maybe the air conditioning was on the blink.

After wiping his brow down with his handkerchief, he sat back down in his chair, swinging back around to face the cameras. The assassins were on the move again, heading back the way they had been going previously, moving as a pair now. Safety in numbers, after all. And by the looks of it, they were getting near to the quarantined zone, where the original carriers were still cooped up, alongside the other biological nightmares cooked up by the corporation over the years, and then stored here for safe keeping.

He looked at another camera. It showed a different part of the maximum security area, a large open storage area, littered with piles of storage crates and barrels, including several large glass containers, containing Hunters and other B.O.W's, currently in a state of forced hibernation. His gaze was focused on the huge red steel capsule at the very far end of the area though, the one marked 'T-103 V-0.2'. The capsule that they had received from the Sheena Island facility a month before.

He knew what was in there, of course. But he was terrified to unleash it, not something that hadn't been tested in the field, not fully, lest it turn on him and crush him in an instant.

But if things got desperate, he might not have a choice in the end.

"Don't worry man, I'll live…ow!"

"Try and stay still," urged the medic stitching up Travis' forehead, his young face set in concentration. It'd been about an hour since the incident with Corporal Greene, who'd tried to shoot Cameron in cold blood, and then faced with the weapons of his own unit, had blown his own brains out. It was a rather distressing scene to witness, and now the military personnel were keeping everything tightly under wraps, especially since the news crews were asking even more questions than before, and the refugees had had a relapse of the horrible events occurring in the city as well.

"You say that, but you could have been shot and killed, for all I know," Cameron said, shaking his head. "Sorry if I'm sounding a little bit concerned right now."

"Yeah well…I just acted on impulse again, as you know," grinned Travis, but then he winced in pain as the medic's needle went through his skin again. "But why the hell would he try to shoot you in the first place?"

"I know he wasn't too pleased about us knowing about those monsters and everything else," reasoned Cameron, "but trying to kill us? That's just a little extreme."

"Gee, you think?" asked Travis sarcastically.

"I think I owe you a new window, at least," replied Cameron, thinking of the shattered truck window from before. Several shards were still stuck in his hair, as it happened.

"We get home, you owe me a new truck at least!" retorted Travis, wincing again as the medic finally ended their work.

"You'll live, trust me," he said. "Just don't scratch at it." And with that piece of advice, the medic gathered up his kit and moved away again, to help those more in need of his services.

"Well whatever the reason, this just gets more and more bizarre," noted Cameron, thinking of recent events in general. "Wonder what Fletcher's doing now?"

"Trying to clean up this mess, what else?" muttered Travis, touching a hand to his wound and tutting loudly.

About 30 feet away, Gordon Fletcher stood in an isolated tent, the body of Tobias Greene lying on the table before him. He sighed deeply, as another soldier searched through the dead man's pockets and pouches for anything that could give a clue as to what the hell had happened just recently.

"I hope you can find an answer to this," growled Colonel Adams from behind him. "One of your men tries to shoot a civilian, and then goes and blows his brains out, right near to every news crew in a 30-mile radius!"

"I'll find an answer," murmured Fletcher quietly.

"You'd better!" half-shouted Adams. "Cause this is the last thing we need, after everything that's happened these last few days!" And with that, the senior officer turned and walked out, not even noticing as the two privates on guard saluted him smartly. Fletcher blinked a few times after the Colonel had left. He really needed some sleep, but he couldn't stop for a rest, not just yet. He had to get to the bottom of this mystery, as soon as possible. Tobias Greene might have disagreed with him on letting civilians know the truth about what was going on, but he never in a million years thought he would go this far.

"Nothing on him aside from some personal items," said the man examining the body, "but the gun is a different story. The serial number's been gouged out, and it's been treated, so there's no chance of tracing it back to a previous owner, if any."

"Go on," nodded Fletcher, his mind trying to piece the truth together from what he was told.

"And this," said the private, holding up a brand-new disposable cell phone, found in one of the corporal's pants pockets. "This is literally brand-new, a few days at the most. There's only one number stored in it, and it's the only number called from this phone."

"Really?" asked Fletcher, interested. "What number?"

"Someone called D.L, whatever that means," replied the private.

"Let me see that," said Fletcher, extending his hand out. Shrugging, the private did so, and Fletcher looked at the ID 'D.L' showing up on the lit screen. The exact number wasn't known, making him immediately suspicious. "Give me a few minutes alone, please."

"As you wish, sir," nodded the private, moving to leave, but turning at the last minute. "Should we inform his parents yet, sir?"

"No, no," replied Fletcher, shaking his head. "We should get to the bottom of all this first, so we have an answer as to why their son is dead." The private nodded in acknowledgement, before taking his leave.

The Lieutenant stared at the name shown on the phone screen for several seconds, trying to figure out if he knew anyone with the initials 'D.L'. He didn't, as far as he knew, but Greene could have. Then again, he also knew about the massive gambling debts that the corporal had accumulated over the last few years, at least in the range of ten thousand dollars. More than one occasion he had come into the barracks, nursing a black eye or broken bones, courtesy of the viscous loan sharks he had relied upon so much. Twice Fletcher had helped him out, but by the next week he had landed himself in trouble again, and the Lieutenant had just stopped trying to help in the end.

This 'D.L' could be one of these shifty characters, he reasoned, and without thinking any further, he pressed the call button, pressing the phone against his right ear.

He could hear ringing for several seconds, and for a second he was about to hang up in annoyance, until the bristling reply came through, the voice belonging to a male in their early fifties, he supposed.

"What part of don't call me unless it's an emergency don't you understand, you slug-brained Neanderthal?!"

Fletcher largely ignored the comment, because the voice seemed strangely familiar to him, a bit too familiar, as it happened.

"Well? Say something you-"

"Didn't your mother teach you basic courtesy about speaking to people over the phone?" retorted Fletcher, cutting the mystery caller off. There was a short pause.

"Who the hell is this? Where's Greene?" asked the voice, flustered.

"This is Lieutenant Gordon Fletcher of the Raccoon County Garrison," replied Fletcher simply. "Greene can't come to the phone now, on account of the hole in his head. And might I ask what he was doing for you, if you don't mind?"

There was another awkward pause, and then the dial tone suddenly sounded. Fletcher looked at the cell phone, realisation slowly dawning on him.

"Lindeman…" he whispered to himself. "Things just keep getting more and more interesting…"

Daniel Lindeman, a tall man in his early fifties and with neatly-trimmed white hair and beard, looked down at his cell phone, a look of surprise on his aged features. He didn't have much faith in Tobias Greene in the first place, but he'd picked him because the man had the right quality- a burning need to acquire a lot of money fast, before he wound up dead in a ditch somewhere. A desperate man, basically. The easiest type of man to manipulate, and it hadn't taken long to find him, either.

But he never expected his contact to have been killed. His plans weren't totally ruined, but they had hit a very major snag. Had Greene been shot dead trying to perform the task, or had he turned the gun on himself? And if this Lieutenant Fletcher had answered the phone, then he was starting to catch onto what had been happening. But he had to worry about that later: he'd just walked out of a meeting with his fellow directors, and it wouldn't do much for him to keep them waiting. This wasn't exactly a household issue they were dealing with, after all. It affected every one of them, all the way down to the lowliest grunt.

Dropping the cell phone back into his pocket, Lindeman turned away and walked up to the huge oak double doors at the end of the corridor, pushing through into the board room. At the sound of his entry, the other nine occupants glanced up at him briefly. He smiled slightly and adjusted his tie.

"Sorry gentlemen, just a littler personnel business I had to attend to," he said, taking his place at the only empty seat.

"I trust it is all dealt with?" asked an old voice from the far end of the massive table, barely a whisper. Lindeman turned slightly to acknowledge the withered, ancient man sat in the wheelchair to his far right, his face marked with extreme age, the flawless black suit he was wearing hanging off of his bony frame. A tiny steel box, attached to the chair's frame, fed a few cables into the side of his skull, a form of life-support system. Which was needed, since the recipient was in his early eighties at least.

"Of course it's been attended to, Lord Spencer," smiled Lindeman, setting his clasped hands on the table surface before him. "There is no need to worry."

Lord Ozwell Spencer, CEO of Umbrella Inc, nodded slowly in acknowledgement, before turning his attention back to the numerous papers before him.

Daniel Lindeman, as it happened, was a member of Umbrella's Board of Directors.

**A/N: Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce Ma****lcolm Donovan: the new Alfred Ashford. Minus the cross-dressing, of course. **

**But anyways, this will likely be my last update for this story for a while at least, since there are other things I'd like to work on, maybe a few more one-shots a-la my 'The Rebirth', which I actually had fun in writing, as it made a nice change from this story. Not that I dislike this story, it's just that everyone needs a break from what they do. And I also plan to start my spin-off project, 'Tales From the Necropolis' soon, hopefully.**

**And in other news…I now have Resident Evil 5. And on first impressions…it's a damned good game, even if it's very similar to Resi Evil 4(that's not really a bad thing though!), and it's harder as well: you can actually run out of ammo quickly unless you understand the perks of replaying chapters to hoard ammo and money, and I miss the fact that the merchant is no longer in this game. But overall, it's still an awesome game, and many of the monsters are absolutely awe-inspiring, and revolting, in equal measure (huzzah for next-gen graphics). And I'll never get tired of killing enemies by punching them as hard as humanly possible in the face, or by stomping on their heads while they're down.**

**But anyways, R+R as usual please. If you don't, I'll send a pack of Lickers round to your house. Why do I have access to Lickers? Because I have connections with Umbrella. **

**Didn't expect that, did ya? **


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23: Mouth of Hell

**September 28****th**** 2136 hours**

He slammed his arm into the steel door several more times.

"Goddamn it, open the fucking door!" he cried.

"Let us in!" cried the lanky man in the white lab coat behind him. "Those things are still out here!" he punctuated that last statement by glancing behind him nervously.

"Let…us…in!" roared Roy Baker, kicking the door in the middle a few times, as hard a she could, but then he quickly stopped, cause it would be silly to break his ankle now.

Roy was one of the engineers for the facility, and he was currently accompanied by his colleague, Danny, and one of the white-coated researchers, whose name he didn't know, and he didn't have time to know now. They'd barely managed to survive for this long, but now Sergeant Sharpe, one of the surviving security guards, had gone and locked himself in one of the dorms, after he'd witnessed his colleague being decapitated by one of these skinless beasts, referred to as an 'Re3' by the scientist, but whatever the hell that meant Roy didn't care less. Sharpe had been pushed over the edge by the grisly sight, and he'd fled as a result, locking himself in, and his companions out.

Danny was leaning up against the wall next to the door, clutching a hand to his side, where blood seeped from a large gash, also sustained by one of those skinless monsters. He could barely walk, needing support from another person to even get this far. He was passing in and out of consciousness as well, muttering incoherently to himself. Roy gave him a concerned look, before turning his attention back to the door.

"There has to be a way inside!" wailed the scientist, looking behind him again, down the empty corridor. All that could be heard was the humming of large fans, but he swore he could have heard something else as well.

"No, there isn't," said Roy, exasperated, "unless the damned coward lets us in!" Then he went back to banging against the door, peering in through the glass porthole. He couldn't see Sharpe, but he could hear the pathetic whimpering and crying of the security man as he tried to keep himself composed.

"Let us in!" Roy yelled. "Don't leave us out here to die, you spineless bastard!"

BANG!

Blood sprayed against the porthole suddenly, causing Roy to jump back in shock. There was also the sound of something heavy hitting the ground, and it didn't take a genius to work out what it could be.

"Shit!" he cursed, looking back at the researcher. "Now we're screwed!"

"Now what do we do?" cried the researcher, even as Roy started to help Danny to stand up again, supporting his weight across his shoulder. "Those things will find us soon!"

"Shut the fuck up and let me think!" growled Roy, looking around him, trying to formulate a plan. From what he knew, they were near to the main dorms for security personnel, another possible refuge they could take, and maybe even they could perhaps find a gun they could use. None of the three members of the ragtag group carried a weapon, and none of them had any formal combat experience either, but having a gun was better than not having a gun at all.

Roy Baker had only become a member of Umbrella's considerable maintenance staff because a job for Umbrella was a job for life, he had heard. He'd just never expected to learn that the massive pharmaceutical corporation developed monsters born from humanity's worst nightmares. He'd been told stories by the other maintenance staff, but never believed them, until he'd seen it or himself, a couple of days beforehand, when he heard the screaming on the streets, and he saw those…those…whatever the hell they were, swarming the roads, devouring anyone they could find. They'd all taken cover below ground, where it was believed to be safe, but then hours before, it had all gone to hell.

Half of the staff had suddenly gone insane, turning on one another and tearing the throats out of the man next to them, as though possessed by some demonic force. And then the other creatures started to appear. Those frog-like beasts with razor-sharp claws, those skinless freaks with the long tongues, and other things too horrible to imagine. They massacred the surviving armed personnel, and soon it became a case of every man for himself. Just a shame for Roy that he ended up with two others to burden him down.

"We need to keep going," he gasped, moving down the corridor a short distance. "Find somewhere to hole up, hold those freaks off! We need to hold our ground until help arrives!"

"Open your goddamn eyes!" wailed the researcher, the stress in his tone clearly evident. "The entire city's been infected! There is no help coming! We're on our own!"

CRASH!

The group looked back the way they had come, where a steel vent cover had been knocked out of place, and now a pair of crouched beasts with gleaming red skin dropped to the floor. They turned towards them, regarding the still-live prey despite their eyeless visages.

"Oh crap…Run!" cried Roy, already turning away and stumbling away down the corridor, dragging Danny with him. The researcher made some sort of pathetic crying sound as he ran after them, tears starting to stain his face. They rounded a couple of corners and down another length of passageway, Roy starting to lag behind due to the weight he had to carry. Behind him, he heard the incessant pursuit of the inhuman beasts chasing them down.

_Click! Click! Click! Click! Click!_

The clicking of their talons on steel continued in a steady rhythm. He didn't dare to look behind him, lest he see the monsters right behind him, bearing down on him. He turned yet another corner, and saw his salvation ahead of him: an unlocked dorm door, wide open.

_Yes! Thank you God!_

He hastened his movement, even as the white-coated researcher caught his foot in a coil of exposed cables and fell to the ground, crying out as he bounced off of the ground. Roy ignored him completely as he stumbled past, focusing purely on the open door ahead of him. Within a few seconds, he was passing through the door's threshold, dropping Danny onto one of the empty beds, and turning back towards the door slamming it shut and pulling the deadbolt into place, even as a panicked face appeared at the glass port hole.

"What the hell are you doing?! Let me in!" he shrieked, banging against the thick steel door repeatedly. "They'll kill me!"

"No fucking way!" yelled Roy back, backing away from the door and dropping down onto a lone chair. The scientist's face turned from terror to fury, and he started banging against the door again, twice as hard.

"You fucking coward!" he roared, almost an imitation of Roy's behaviour moments before. "Open the goddamn door and let me-"

There was a wet slurping sound from outside, and the researcher's voice was cut off by the sound of something wet being spilled, and thick blood splashed against the glass, obscuring the view to the corridor outside. The sound of two separate objects hitting the ground was heard. Roy just stared, wide-eyed in terror, as the blood slowly slid off of the glass, leaving a thick crimson smear. He breathed to himself, that being the only sound in the room now, alongside Danny's weak moans, as he slipped in and out of consciousness.

Roy Baker buried his face in his hands, sobbing quietly to himself.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They stepped through into a new section of corridor, and here the atmosphere was much more sinister than before. For one, most of the lights were down, and the blinking red lights mounted on the walls gave brief glimpses of the cold steel walls, smeared with something dark. The floor was littered with empty shell casings as well, and yellow tape was also littered about. The faint smell of gunpowder was in the air.

"What the hell happened here?" asked Ben, picking up a length of ripped tape. The word 'QUARANTINE- NO ACCESS' was written across it in large black letters. "Quarantine?"

"I read some guy's journal a short while ago," said Dean, standing over his friend. "It said they quarantined some of the staff when it was obvious the virus had gotten inside the facility."

"Sounds pleasant," mused Ben without humour, dropping the tape he had been holding before. He tried to peer down a nearby passage, but the limited light made it hard to discern if there was anything waiting. "A torch would have been nice," he muttered.

"I hear ya buddy," replied Dean, "but we should just take it slowly for now, agreed?"

"If it stops us getting killed, then yes, I agree," replied Ben, switching his Ak-47 for his shotgun, and glancing up at the nearest vent covers. After the encounter with those tongue-monsters, it would pay to be a lot more careful from now on…and that meant keeping an eye on wherever their enemies could be hiding.

Dean shouldered his own shotgun as he led the way down the nearest corridor, Ben glued to his back, covering the points he couldn't see. Their shoes echoed uncomfortably down the hallway, giving any zombie or whatever-the-hell else in the vicinity an idea that prey was on its way. The right-hand wall was inset with a huge glass window that stretched the whole length of the corridor. Beyond the glass was the faint outline of a workstation, with various glass beakers and other scientific gear atop of it, but muddy darkness obscured everything else.

As they were about half-way down the corridor, Ben wandered up to the glass, pressing his face against it, trying to discern anything that could have been lurking inside.

BAM!

A human shape lurched out of the darkness and slammed against the glass, causing Ben to nearly hit the ceiling in fright as he jumped back against the wall. Instinctively, he pulled out his Beretta and pulled the trigger.

BANG!

The bullet only splintered the bullet-proof glass slightly, but Dean was spinning around to see what the threat was, but he quickly relaxed when he saw that there was no need to worry.

On the opposite side of the glass, a zombified researcher, his white coat torn and falling apart, banged against the impenetrable surface in a futile effort to get at the prey visible on the other side, leaving bloody smears where his hands made contact. The man's skin was peeling away from the bone in several places, his eyes and teeth gleaming with hungry intent. After a few seconds, another two zombies, another scientist and a maintenance worker appeared alongside their rotting cohort, beating against the glass and moaning in harmony. Beyond them, more shadowy shapes could be seen moving around, all of them undead, and all in an advanced state of decay.

"Well at least you only wasted one bullet," said Dean with a sly smile. Ben didn't reply, since he was too busy trying to get his heart out of his throat.

"Was this what Pete meant by quarantine?" he asked instead, as he put his weapon away. "Did they just lock them away in there?"

"Maybe it was the best thing for them," observed Dean, "rather than risk them infecting everyone else."

"But they had a cure didn't they? Why didn't they just give that to them?" said Ben, unable to believe that they would just lock their colleagues away like that rather than trying to help them.

"Well…maybe someone didn't want to share," replied Dean. It was a pretty horrible thing to imagine, but it was a reasonable thing to assume: self-preservation would likely mean someone could have kept the cure to themselves.

"Look, can we just keep going," said Ben suddenly, wanting to move on from those chilling thoughts. "It's getting pretty cold down here."

"You can say that again," agreed Dean, shivering slightly as he rubbed his arms. The numerous tears and holes in his jacket sleeves meant that he was feeling the cold upon his bare skin. Maybe it was because of the fact they were below ground, or because of the cold steel surroundings they found themselves in, but there was a noticeable chill in the air.

"Well come on then," urged Ben, moving on down the corridor. They passed by more reinforced glass windows, with zombies stirring inside. They beat against the glass feebly, leaving bloody smears and swirls as their hands pressed up against the solid surface that they could see their prey through, their mouths opening and closing in anticipation of the kill.

The pair passed by another door, one that remained shut tight even when they approached.

"Hmm. Maybe it's busted?" suggested Dean, even as Ben leaned up heavily against it, kicking at the bottom part a few times.

"Maybe," replied Ben, giving up and picking up his AK-47 rifle again. "But there's other places to try. Let's keep moving."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Donovan swung from side to side in his seat, watching carefully as the two intruders made their way past some of the quarantined labs in the north part of the western wing, and then tried the door that would lead into B.O.W storage, locked off, and for very good reason, since the terror that lurked somewhere behind it had to be contained, lest it went on to destroy everyone in the facility. The terror born from an experiment with the progenitor virus; of which they had a few samples of in their stores.

The progenitor virus had always induced violent mutations in everything it infected, but that thing had reacted in a much more extreme manner than most other recorded hosts to the virus. It had killed at least half a dozen guards and five researchers in the time span after it had broken free from its steel prison, raging through the immediate corridors. They had disabled the door leading into that part of the facility, trapping a few more people inside, but it was a necessary sacrifice to make to protect everyone else who was still alive.

He could see it on one of the cameras now, lumbering back and forth along one of the corridors, passing over the disembowelled and diced bodies of its past victims, its massive body practically filling the corridor from side to side, its hot breath hanging in the air. It lumbered out of view, and appeared on another camera, uttering a silent roar and sweeping one of its massive limbs out at the wall, scarring it deeply. Scolding steam issued out from severed pipes, but the beast didn't even register the incredible pain it had probably just received, and it lumbered on.

The progenitor virus and the T-Virus were masterpieces of what mankind could create; although the things they created weren't always…perfect, to say the least. This beast was incredibly powerful and resilient, but unfortunately it was also completely uncontrollable, as his staff had discovered for themselves. No-one knew how it had escaped, but Donovan knew: he had been the one that had remotely released the lock on the beast's holding cage in the first place, just to see how it would react in the vicinity of live prey. Needless to say, the results were rather messy. He smiled to himself as he relieved that moment over in his head.

"Such a waste of good staff of course," he said to himself, glancing momentarily at Captain Beckett's corpse. "But sacrifices have to made of course, isn't that right, Captain?" The body didn't reply, of course, corpses couldn't talk. If it did start talking back to him, Donovan would have to question his sanity.

He sighed deeply and leaned back in his chair. He wondered where Umbrella's high command was up to right now. Probably trying to think of a way to salvage something from this mess, but considering how most of the lower Umbrella staff had been left high and dry when this mess had occurred, he doubted they were worried about any operations left in this place now. They had other bases of operations around the world, countless other projects to worry about.

Yet the fall out from this could potentially destroy them all sooner or later.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Gentlemen, allow us to take a much-needed break."

At the sound of their Lord's voice, Umbrella's Board of Directors rose to their feet, shifting through their individual piles of paperwork, before leaving the boardroom quickly, whispering among themselves. Normally in a meeting like this the chatter would be of a friendly nature, but now it was rather more restrained and sombre, considering the grave situation. Each one of them was a hugely rich and powerful man, acting as the head of an Umbrella facility in one major cities of the world, from New York to Sydney, to London and even Tokyo. They also formed the main crux of Umbrella's command structure, organising the actions of every other facility in the world.

As the room emptied, Ozwell Spencer turned his wheelchair away from the head of the huge table, looking out of the massive glass window that overlooked downtown New York. Before the disaster had reached danger level, he had come here by chopper to meet with the other directors in person, to organise the consolidation of their resources, and also to prepare for the fall-out. Raccoon City was still on the map, but total decontamination was the only way to prevent a world-wide outbreak of the T-Virus. And that extreme choice would likely cause enormous public outcry.

Ozwell E. Spencer was born into a noble family of England, and proved to be a genius in biological science, graduating from University ahead of the rest of his peers. As his first major project after graduating, himself and his close friends, Edward Ashford and James Marcus, travelled to Africa to research the deadly Ebola virus that was currently decimating the country's population. But in doing so, they found something else.

Prior to their trip their, Spencer had come into possession of several journals written by Henry Travis, a renowned explorer from the 19th Century who had traversed all of Africa's regions on a massive expedition, his journals discussing the country's natural geography, its wildlife, its people, almost everything that could be discussed. One part of the journals had discussed the Nidpaya, a local tribe of natives in the Western region of Africa who, legend had it, used some special means by way of a ritual to prolong their natural life. With the aid of local military forces, the group succeeded in reaching the Nidpaya's homeland.

And when they found those flowers, growing in that underground garden…things got even more unusual. The flowers contained some unknown virus, a virus that could reconstitute a living person's DNA, turning them into something else. It was the same method the Nidpaya tribal leaders were using to prolong their lives beyond the normal threshold. That discovery changed everything, as far as Spencer was concerned. He had been inspired by the effects of Ebola after seeing it up close, seeing the incredible destruction it could inflict upon those countries it affected. If there was a way to replicate that effect for military purposes, then a very profitable business could be established.

After they had found a way to replicate this virus, the three friends established the company that would become known as Umbrella, a leading body in the field of pharmaceutical and medical developments, on Spencer's suggestion. It had seemed a rather surprising idea to come up with, but the others had eventually agreed to go along with him, since they would need a front to cover their bio-weapons research.

Of course, that was all just to mask Spencer's ultimate goals from everyone else, from the people who worked for him, from his competitors, and even from the people he considered his closest friends…

"Lord Spencer?" asked a voice from behind him suddenly, catching his attention. Spencer only turned his head slightly, but he recognised the voice.

"Ah, Linderman," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "What seems to be troubling you?" The New York director walked up to stand beside his Lord, both of them looking out of the window in silence for a few seconds, before Linderman finally spoke, stroking his beard.

"My Lord, I have a few reservations about what we're doing here," he said, bluntly.

"What reservations would those be?" asked Spencer, his dark eyes brimming with slight displeasure.

Linderman paused to consider his words before he continued. "This is a horrible event, granted my Lord, and I agree that we need to plan how to reconsolidate our losses-"

"So what seems to be the problem?" asked Spencer, turning his wheelchair to face the director, who seemed a little taken aback by the suddenness of his Lord's reaction.

"-but what about our financial needs?" There was a pause in the air.

"In what respect, Daniel?" asked Spencer, using the director's first name.

"Sir, we've spent, how much on our bio-weapon research since the company was first founded? $40 billion, at least?" noted Linderman, motioning with his hands. "And yet, we're still pushing to double that in the years following this incident."

"What's your point, Linderman?" asked Spencer, staring. "Raccoon City contains most of our research data from our entire history, and it will need replacing."

"Well sir, even if we hit on some massive success with future projects, the profits would only cover about half of the costs incurred in funding the projects," continued the director. "It'd be simply impossible to fully cover ourselves financially. At this rate, the company will force itself bankrupt."

Spencer continued to look at the NY director for a few seconds before he replied.

"Your concerns are appreciated Linderman, but there is nothing to worry about," the CEO said finally, turning away from the director to look out the window again. "Whatever happens, this company must continue to operate…the plan must be achieved." He allowed himself a smile after that last remark.

Linderman shifted uneasily in his spot. "'The plan'? What do you mean by that, Lord Spencer? Is there something the rest of us should know about?"

"None of your concern," snapped Spencer suddenly. The director was taken aback by the CEO's tone. "Are you scared, by any chance?"

"With all due respect sir, we're all scared," replied Linderman. "We're scared of losing our jobs, for one thing. Scared of being arrested as well. But it seems you're the only one that isn't scared, sir."

Spencer bristled visibly. "Why do you say that?"

"A lot of people are dead, because of us. Because of what we did."

"There are always necessary casualties in this business," smiled Spencer, before his tone became more hostile. "You of all people should know that."

"I wouldn't call 100,000 people 'necessary casualties'," replied Linderman, standing his ground. "A whole town has been destroyed, and you don't seem concerned at all!"

"I would watch your tone, Linderman," wheezed Spencer, staring.

"I've served this company most of my life, Lord Spencer," stated Linderman, "but I'm sorry, I've turned a blind eye to your callous attitude for too long." This was unprecedented: the first time an Umbrella employee had faced up to their CEO so openly.

Spencer pressed a button on his chair's command panel, and the double doors into the boardroom suddenly crashed open, a quartet of Spencer's personal bodyguards, large shaven-haired men in black polo-neck sweaters and wearing ear pieces, entered. They just stood in the doorway, awaiting orders.

"I'll pretend your never said that, Linderman," said Spencer, darkly, despite his wheezing voice. "We will deal with this mess, and then we will prepare for the future. We need to act as a single body for the storm that will come, and I hope you will be on the right side-"

He looked up at the bodyguards again, who were ready to strike on the whim of their master, Linderman eyeing all of them warily. Each one had a Colt .45 handgun holstered at their waist.

"-otherwise, you will be dealt with accordingly. No-one will stand in the way of our plans, is that clear?" Linderman looked at his CEO, realising that he didn't really have any other choice in the matter, unless he fancied waking up dead on a beach somewhere. He might not approve of Spencer's actions, but he knew when he was forced into the corner.

"Yes sir. Crystal clear," he said, finally.

"That's good," nodded Spencer, and his bodyguards departed, leaving the doors wide open. The CEO turned back to face the NY director. "Now go and rest, Daniel. We still have a lot of work ahead of us."

"As you wish, my lord," replied Lindeman, smiling and bowing slightly, before turning and walking towards the open double doors.

"And Lindeman?" asked Spencer, just before Lindeman had walked out of the room fully.

"Close the doors behind you, please." Lindeman's face stiffened up, but he still nodded curtly, closing the double doors slowly as he disappeared from view.

Ozwell Spencer sighed deeply and turned back to face out the window. His own people were starting to suspect his motives, and at a time like this. It wouldn't be the first time though; it was something he had become used to over his lifetime as the corporation's CEO. In the wake of all the terrible things he had committed in his career, it was natural that people didn't trust him fully. He couldn't act right now though, not until their business here had been concluded.

And only then would he move to quash this annoyance.

Daniel Lindeman looked over his shoulder as he paced down the corridor, shaking his head slowly. His suspicions were confirmed then. Spencer truly was insane: his callous disregard for the huge loss of life in Raccoon City, and his relentless spending of cash on the company's bio-weapons research would only drive Umbrella into the ground harder and quicker. Money didn't grow on trees, but they didn't have an infinite supply of products to sell either.

Lindeman had a cosy life going throughout his time with Umbrella, and he was in no hurry to give that life up, not after making it this far. It was one of the reasons why he had established a contact in one of the refugee centres for the Raccoon incident, to help maintain that life.

So his mind had been made up now. Once this was all over, he'd leave Umbrella behind, start his life afresh. He still had a considerable fund stored away to help with such a plan, and he had a lot of connections the world over: if he could even start a new life. Still, he couldn't stay here, working for a deluded madman for much longer.

But first things first…he'd need to get some sleep, and then he would have to get in touch with his other contact. After all, all Umbrella contacts operated in pairs, and he'd still need to make an effort to make sure they all didn't get arrested at the end of all this, so he had a new life to actually go to.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was truly twilight now, the only lights in the sky being the twinkling stars and the searchlights of army and civilian helicopters buzzing here and there as they circled around the city. Outside it was quiet as the refugees slept, but the guards remained vigilant, their night vision scopes scanning the darkness. The odd sound of movement and of muttered conversations between comrades could be heard.

Gordon Fletcher sat in his command tent, his elbows propped up on the tabletop. He sighed and rubbed his face, looking down at the numerous reports before him. There was one from the northern limits, where several people had tried to cross the barricade from the city side, and had been shot dead as a result. None of them showed any signs of infection, yet no chances could be taken. Another brutal moment in this whole mess…

And now one Umbrella's main directors was involved. He had met Daniel Lindeman the day previously, via video conference while the corporation's main leaders had met in New York to presumably try and salvage something from this whole situation. Fletcher had been there with the other officers commanding the military quarantine of Raccoon City. A joint operation, it was meant to be, though Fletcher was positive he hadn't seen a single Umbrella employee at the barricade since they had first erected it.

There were 11 people in that conference video, but only Spencer, the company's ancient CEO, and Lindeman himself, stuck in his mind, mainly because the white-bearded man seemed so cold when he had spoken. So detached…it made the Lieutenant suspicious, to say the least. It wasn't the first time he had dealt with Umbrella in his career either.

Years ago, when he as just a cadet, there had been an incident in the small town near his barracks, where an Umbrella plant was located. He remembered that day, when the huge black column of smoke could be seen issuing from the centre of town, along with the wailing of warning sirens. None of them had a chance to see what had happened, as the whole thing was apparently dealt with overnight. All he remembered seeing were the strange men in full black combat gear, hanging around outside the town limits…and then 2 weeks later the whole town was flattened to make way for a new freeway extension.

But he had to worry about right now. One of his own men had just blown his brains out, and it seemed a senior Umbrella employee had some hand in everything that had gone down. His initial guess that Umbrella had some other hand in this seemed to be right, but other than someone's initials on a cell phone and a voice he recognised, he didn't have any other proof of the corporation's more direct involvement, despite all the suspicious circumstances. And he couldn't exactly go around pointing fingers before he had all the facts.

And Colonel Adams was still raging over what had happened…a veritable PR nightmare, as he had said before, as he departed back to HQ to meet with General Graves and learn more about the exact state of the Mission Code XX project…that still beggared belief from Fletcher's standpoint. They wouldn't go that far, would they? There had to be some other way to handle this situation rather than going straight for the most extreme option. It was like swatting a fly with a shotgun.

He sighed again and went back to his stack of reports. He still had some time before Colonel Adams got back, and he had to have some good news for him by then. Though with the press asking tons of questions and his men stretched to breaking point; that seemed unlikely. It was akin to spinning plates, he reckoned.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They passed into what must have been the canteen with several tables laid out with eating utensils and plates of half-eaten food, left where when the disaster had come. A pair of white-coated researchers were lying sprawled over a few of the tables, while a quartet of zombies ate their fill, tearing off shreds of skin and intestine, chomping contently on the flesh.

"Seems appropriate considering where we are," muttered Dean darkly, as he already went for his Beretta, Ben doing the same. It'd be better not to waste their more powerful weapons on simple zombies. As if sensing the new prey behind them, two of the zombies stopped their feast and turned to face behind them. One of them, a former security guard, still had a length of skin hanging out of its blood-smeared mouth.

BANG!

It snapped back, blood and brain matter exploding out of the back of its skull, crashing through one of the tables and hurling its contents around the room. The others moved around to attack, even as Ben shot two of them through the back or the side of the head, dropping them like a sack of potatoes. The last one, a wasted being in a white coat, turned to face them, blood still dripping from its fingertips, as Dean buried a 9mm round through its forehead, knocking it backwards over its former meal.

"Persistent sons-of-bitches, aren't they?" observed Ben, grimacing at the gruesome sight.

"You only realised that now?" asked Dean, holstering his weapon. "Come on, that armoury key card has to be around here somewhere."

Their new objective still stuck fresh in their minds: to find that elusive armoury keycard so they could load up on ammo, and also hopefully, maybe find some more powerful weaponry to use against their monstrous opponents. All they knew is that someone called James went off to find it, and he had either died on the way, or he had found it and then died on the way back, which sucked for him either way, and sucked for them as well, since they had to find it themselves. And that encounter with the skinless monsters with lance-like tongues from before showed them there could be even worse things than zombies down here.

They both searched over the dead bodies, trying to block out the overpowering stench of blood and decay emanating from the corpses. But they found nothing of use, aside from a few personal items on each body: a set oh house keys, pictures of loved ones, packets of cigarettes, sodden through with blood.

"Well that was a dead end," muttered Ben, as he tossed aside someone's wallet he had just leafed through. "This is as far as we can go for this part of the facility- well; we need that master key to get into the station."

"Let's just worry about the armoury for now, right?" replied Dean, the annoyance creeping into his voice. "Maybe we missed it somewhere along the way: let's head back and double-check everything again."

"Joy of joys," muttered Ben, not sounding very enthusiastic at all. His body language reflected this mood as well, as they both turned to walk out of the room. As they did, they failed to notice the blinking red light of the security camera in the far corner of the ceiling, tracking their movements.

They'd passed by a few more storage rooms and recreational areas so far, which cumulated in the canteen area they had just ventured into. A few zombies loitered here and there, but nothing that they couldn't handle. After dealing with that massed horde of zombies that had dogged them when they had left the law offices with the U.B.C.S survivors, and countless other biological horrors cooked up by Umbrella, a few solitary flesh eaters didn't concern them anymore. The bodies of their most recent kills lined the steel floors, puddles of burgundy liquid tinged with pink brain matter spreading beneath their ruptured skulls. They had been humans once, but now they were reduced to staring up at the ceiling with their empty eyes, for all eternity.

They passed back into the first corridor that marked this part of the facility, the reinforced windows with the zombies still trapped on the other side, beating away in vain. The two police officers walked in silence, their footsteps reverberating off of the steel flooring. Ben passed along the corridor length as though in auto-pilot, but Dean came to a halt when he noticed something.

The door that had been shut before, was now wide open, as though inviting him to step through. Most of the doors in this place operated automatically whenever someone approached, probably acting on motion sensors, so to see this one opened by itself was unusual to say the least. He couldn't sense much beyond the door's threshold, aside from the usual blank steel walls and flooring. Gazing through the open door, he failed to notice that Ben was several feet ahead of him, obviously having not noticed the open doorway.

Dean briefly considered his options. They still had to find that damned armoury key card, and as far as he knew they hadn't covered the area behind this previously shut door yet.

"Hey Ben!" he called out, taking a tentative step towards the opened door. "There's still a place we can look in over here!"

"What's that?" asked Ben's voice from around the corner. Dean didn't wait for his friend as he took another step, through the door and into the unexplored area beyond.

WHOOSH!

The sound of the door closing made him spin around on the spot, staring in shock as the corridor beyond was shut off from view in an instant.

"No!" he yelled, running up to and ramming his shoulder into the hard surface. He pretty much just bounced off, even as he heard hurried footsteps coming up to the other side of the door.

"Dean! Are you allright?" yelled Ben's panicked voice, muffled through the steel.

"I'm fine!" yelled Dean back; looking around for some kind of control panel he could use to activate the door again. There wasn't one. "The door just shut by itself!"

"What?! How?" asked Ben in disbelief. The sound of him trying to kick the door down could be heard, hollow thuds ringing down the corridor.

"I don't know!" cried Dean, trying yet again to force it open, but that door wasn't going anywhere.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Safe in his office, Malcolm Donovan smiled to himself as he saw the predicament of the two Umbrella assassins, cut off from one another thanks to him. After all, a good tactic to defeat your enemy was to divide and conquer…

The systems in that facility might have been carefully maintained, but Donovan could control a lot of the door and locking facilities from where he currently was. He hadn't intervened initially because he thought they would be killed by the biological nightmares wandering about, but now it was clear that he had to get involved in order to get the better of them. And so to set his plan in motion…

He pressed another button on his controls, unlocking the door into the research lab in that same area of the facility…where the initial infected had been locked away from the others. So while one of them had to contend with the newly released infected hosts, his companion now locked in with a nightmare that made even the Re3's look like pussycats. He could see him now, still banging on the door, before some unseen sound made him turn to face behind him, his expression showing fear.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Dean heard the monstrous roaring sound from behind him, he turned and looked down the corridor behind him, ceasing his attempts to get the door open instantly. It was only then that he finally took notice of the state this place was in.

Most of the lights were flickering really badly, only illuminating the corridor for brief flashes lasting only a second or so, but it was enough to see the state it was in. The walls were marked with splashes of blood and deep, savage claw marks, tearing through the steel and exposed cables and pipes as though it were nothing. And the floor was literally carpeted with corpses: mainly security guards, but a few corpses of researchers were laid out among them as well. A lot of them were in pieces, their guts and other internal organs torn out or messily devoured, their faces showing expressions of insane agony and terror. They lay among a carpet of spent shell casings and broken weapons, the overpowering stench of blood and gunpowder hanging in the air.

Dean swallowed heavily, trying to keep the taste of bile on the back of his tongue down. His breathing was starting to become more laboured, even as heard another burst of an animalistic roar from somewhere ahead of him.

"Dean, what was that?" yelled Ben's muffled voice from behind the closed door, but Dean ignored him, bringing his shotgun up before him.

He heard a low growling from ahead of him, and then there was another abrupt roar, and a desiccated corpse, its legs and lower torso torn away, was thrown around the corner about 30 feet away from him. It slapped against the far wall and then flopped to the ground, spraying blood on the wall and ceiling.

"Oh God no…" whispered Dean, as he heard the heavy footsteps on the steel. A few seconds later, it finally rounded the corner, heading straight for the corpse it had just tossed away from it, digging its blood-stained teeth into the exposed intestine and wolfing the bloody remains down. Dean took in its horrific appearance in a few seconds time. After all he had seen he never imagined he'd see something like that.

"Oh God…"

At the sound of his whispered voice, its head suddenly swung towards him, most of its skull exposed in the limited lighting.

And then it roared at him, this time the sound amplified to incredible levels, forcing him to clamp his hands over his ears and nearly fall to his knees, in the face of the ferocity of that aural assault.

"Dean, what the fuck was that?!" asked Ben's terrified voice, barely audible to Dean's strained hearing. He was also more fixated on the monstrosity ahead of him, as it suddenly moved towards him, its walk moving into a bounding motion, its sheer weight and mass practically shaking the corridor. It nearly filled the corridor from side to side, its shoulders smashing into the steel and warping it as though it were nothing. It roared again, bloody drool trailing behind it, the massive claws on its feet tearing right through the flooring and the dead bodies it passed over, but not slowing the beast down at all.

Swearing, Dean raised his shotgun and fired. The booming retort of the weapon was heard clearly, and he saw the puff of watery blood spray from the monsters front left shoulder, but it didn't even flinch.

"Shit!" he said, turning and sprinting away down the corridor to his right, the beast thundering after him. He managed to reach the first corner and turn down it just as the monster reached where he had been standing just previously, but it wasn't able to turn in time, and it slid right into the door instead. There was a thunderous crash as the beast slammed into the wall, leaving a great crater in the solid steel wall. It roared again as it pulled itself free and bounded after Dean once more, baying for his blood.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Dean, what the fuck was that?!" cried Ben in a panic-strained voice when he heard the monstrous sound emanating from the opposite side of the locked door, soon followed by the booming retort of Dean's shotgun, and then the pounding of something heavy coming towards him. Ben's heart leapt into his throat.

_No…not again!_

He'd seen too many people die in front of him while he was powerless to prevent it…but no more. Way too many people had died in this damned place, and now his partner and his old friend could be next. And he'd be damned if he were to allow that to happen, after they'd come this far.

"Hold on! I'm coming!" he yelled, hoping that Dean had heard him, before he rammed shoulder-first into the door, trying to get it open, even though he probably needed some kind of explosive to get through, but all he thought about now was making sure that his friend didn't get killed. He pulled out his shotgun and rammed his foot into the centre of the door a couple of times, but it still didn't budge.

WHAM!

Something huge and heavy slammed into the opposite side of the door, hard enough to distort the door and the surrounding wall, leaving the imprint of something huge in the wall. Ben hopped back in shock, impacting against the opposite wall, aiming his shotgun at the buckled door, which barely held. The unknown thing on the other side roared again, a horrific sound that bayed for blood.

_That definitely doesn't sound good…what the hell am I supposed to do?_

He heard the shuffling of feet from somewhere down the corridor to his right, and he turned and looked behind him to see a handful of zombies advancing down the passage towards him, arms outstretched in anticipation of the kill. He realised that they were the same ones that had been safely trapped in that lab they had passed by just previously, the flickering lights giving him brief flashes of their distorted visages.

Cursing, he swung around to face them and unloaded his first shot into the gut of the first one dressed in a torn white scientist's coat, throwing it backwards into two of its cohorts, knocking them all to the ground. He'd have to hope that Dean could take care of himself for the time being.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dean was in a corridor that was significantly better lighted than most of the other places in this part of the facility, and that's when he gave himself the opportunity to glance behind him, at the monstrosity chasing after him, threatening to bring the walls down with its baying cries.

It was huge, one sheer mass of muscle and bone, large patches of its matted fur torn away or peeling off, exposing the moving slabs of muscle and tendons moving beneath its skin. Its thick limbs ended in dagger-like claws that burst through its flesh, clearly too large to be normal for a beast of that size. Its narrow-nosed head was largely just a bloody skull, barely traces of flesh still peeling away from the bone, its eyes glossed over.

Its appearance was unmistakeable: it used to a bear, one of the great grizzlies that roamed the Arklay forest, which he had seen on more than once occasion, except now it had been warped into something that should never have existed outside of someone's worst nightmares, almost twice its original mass in sheer muscle and bone, and utterly homicidal he guessed. The bloody mess it had made of those poor guards in the other length of corridor put paid to that.

It roared again, spraying its spittle up the walls and then rearing up on its hind legs, exposing its bare torso and stomach. Dean took his chance and fired twice in succession, blowing a couple of smoking craters through its body, but barely affecting the beast, it seemed. The monster swung one of its massive limbs out, the claws tearing through the steel wall as though it were nothing. And if he were unlucky, they would tear his head off as well. He fired a third round into one of the monster's front limb, forcing the arm backwards, but it simply swung its other arm at him.

He ducked back as the viscous claws barely missed the top of his head. He fell onto the ground hard and scuttled backwards as the beast towered over him, ready to bring its jaws down towards his face. He managed to bring the barrel of his shotgun up though, and fired another load of buckshot through its torso, causing to bellow in agony and draw back slightly, giving him enough time to drag himself back just as the jaws came down again, chomping through the steel grating.

He gasped for breath as he struggled to his feet. This thing was a nightmare: incredibly powerful, resilient, and also fast, despite its considerable bulk and powerful attacks. He should have been dead by now, yet his will kept him alive and away from its slavering jaws. He looked around behind him, seeing the steel door some yards away from him, a possible escape route from this nightmare pursuing him.

He sprinted away from the beast, turning and plunging through the already-opening door into the abandoned room beyond, but when he saw what lay within, he quickly wished he hadn't.

The room was stacked full of steel cages of various sizes, containing a variety of animals, from dogs and cats through to apes and even larger animals. But all of them were long dead, their flesh festering and peeling away from the bone, their eyes long glossed over, flies buzzing around their pus-stained skin and maggots wallowing in huge piles. The stench of decaying flesh lingered in the air, and dried blood had long since pooled around the cages set on the floors. Dean covered his mouth, resisting the urge not to throw up.

And then there was that roaring sound again, and the beast was right outside, turning into the room the same way he just had. There was an almighty crash as it slammed into the door, crashing through the thick steel as though it were nothing. The door itself was slammed out of its frame, the walls either side pushed aside, peeling away like orange skin. The monster slammed down hard on all fours, roaring once more, the sound threatening to bring down the ceiling.

Dean cursed and backed away from the demon bear, as it swung one of its great paws, lifting a small cage off of the ground and slamming it hard against one of the far walls, crumpling it like a soda can. Dean took the opportunity to open fire again, tearing holes into the monsters limbs and shoulder, but it barely slowed down as it tried to swat him again, forcing him to hop back. The raking claws still tore through his shirt though, barely missing his skin.

He back-pedalled away further, as the demon bear reared up on its hind legs, its head nearly smacking against the room's ceiling, bellowing in rage. It crashed down again, crushing another cage containing a dog's corpse with ease. Dean reached down for some spare shotgun shells in his pocket realizing that he was almost about to run about of ammo for it, and he didn't fancy going down to just his Beretta.

He pulled one of the spare shells out, and realised that they were a deep blue colouration, and he realised what they were: those enhanced shotgun shells he had been given some time before by Mac.

_How the hell could I forget about these?!_

He couldn't ponder that now though. He loaded a few of them into the weapon's magazine tube and aimed it towards the lumbering beast that was towering over him now. He aimed for its midsection and pulled the trigger.

BOOM!

The weapon went off with an ear-splitting sound, nearly tearing his arms out of their sockets with the savage recoil, almost throwing him onto his backside into the bargain. The shell's load tore right through the demon bear's flesh and muscle, exploding out of the other side of it. The monster bellowed in agony and flew backwards, flailing its front limbs around as blood sprayed from the fresh wound in its torso. It crashed into a stack of cages, making an almighty racket as it struggled to find its footing again.

Dean looked down at his shotgun, his back to another cage.

_If you're up there Mac, I owe you big time-_

Something crashed into the other side of the cage behind him, grabbing for his jacket with sharp claws. Dean nearly leapt out of his skin as he swung around to face whatever it was. It was a monkey that wasn't quite as dead as he thought it was.

Its white fur was split and torn in several places, its muscles and sinew visible to the naked eye. Its dagger-like fangs were bared as it screamed at him, reaching one of its bloody paws through the cage at him, its eyes glazed over and devoid of life. A few other similar specimens, also trapped in their steel prisons, started to go wild, their shrieking cries rattling around inside his skull. He looked around at their maddened faces, pressed against the steel, trying to get at him.

Dean didn't hesitate for too much longer as aimed the weapon barrel at the first screaming beast and pulled the trigger.

The blast went straight through the steel cage. The monkey's scream cut off abruptly as the powerful shot literally vaporized it, splattering the cage's confines with gore and stinking meat. Dean panted in relief as he stared at the smoking remains of the poor animal. And then he remembered the more dangerous threat in the vicinity.

He ducked down just as the bear's hungry jaws chomped down on where his head and neck were previously. He twisted away, trying to bring his shotgun to bear once again. He fired another shell into the beast's forearm, tearing a hole right through the hairy limb, but the monster rallied through it, swinging its other arm around, backhanding him roughly in the torso.

He flew back, striking against the reinforced glass and bouncing off, falling to the ground. His shotgun flew out of his grasp, landing in one of the far corners of the room, wedged between the wall and a cage.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ben forced his shotgun under the zombie's chin, forcing its yellowed teeth back from him as it flailed its arms around pathetically, trying to get a hold of its prey. Its slain brethren littered the corridor beyond it, their heads blown apart or smoking holes in their bodies. He gritted his teeth as he managed to push the freak back even further, before he twisted his weapon and rammed the stock into the side of its head. There was a crack and the undead monster collapsed to the ground, blood spraying up the wall.

But it wasn't quite dead, and tried to struggle to its feet, but Ben didn't give it a chance as he hovered over it, stamping down on its skull as hard as he could muster. There was an awful crunch of bone as the former human's head was reduced to a bloody pulp.

He grimaced in disgust as he removed his foot, looking around for any other threats, but he had eliminated all of the zombies that had come charging down the corridor after him, released by some unknown means or person, but he had to worry about that later, as he turned back towards the sealed door Dean was still trapped behind and running up to it.

He didn't know how to get it open before, but now that it was crumpled like a soda can almost, it would be even harder for him to get through now. But he had to find a way through, as he didn't like the idea of leaving his friend to tackle some monstrous beast by himself-

A ragged gasp caught his attention, and he glanced up to see one of those skinless monsters clinging to the wall about 12 feet away from him, just staring at him, its teeth locked in a grin, almost relishing the thought of a fresh kill. They stared at one another for a few seconds, and then he quickly raised his shotgun.

The sudden motion spurred the creature into action. Its tongue cracked out, wrapping tightly around the weapon's barrel and yanking it forcefully out of his hands. The weapon was dashed forcefully against the far wall, and it literally shattered into individual pieces.

Ben cursed. That weapon had killed god knows how many of these things during his time throughout this entire mess, even fighting off that one-eyed freak with the rocket launcher from before, that 'Nemesis' as the U.B.C.S mercs had referred to it as. And he had lost it. Somehow, losing that one weapon pissed him off quite a lot, especially after how many scrapes it had gotten him out of. And now the monster responsible for that act seemed to be laughing at him almost, as it withdrew its tongue.

"Right, that's it!" he yelled angrily, reaching for his AK-47 instead. He raised it and fired, but the creature pushed itself off of its perch, landing on the opposite wall instead. Ben's rounds smacked into the wall where the beast had been perched just beforehand. Just as quickly, it launched itself again, claws bared. Ben stood his ground and fired again, on full auto.

The shots tore through the monster's arms and torso, but it kept going, pushed on by its momentum, before a few shots struck its head. Most of its face exploded, and Ben was able to dive sideways in time as the now-dead monster flew past him and slammed into the floor, sliding along for several feet, leaving a bloody trail in its wake.

Ben gasped for breath as he pushed himself off of the wall, staring at the bloody corpse, and then looking down the corridor in time to see two more of those tongue monsters clawing towards him, the incessant clicking sound reverberating off of the walls. But he wasn't about to run away now. He had done too much of that in the past, and he stood his ground instead.

"Bring it on," he said, slamming a new magazine into his rifle.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Oh shit oh shit oh shit…_

Dean scuttled back, barely keeping ahead of the hungry jaws that came after him, trailing saliva. He prayed that he got a hold of his shotgun, anything he could use to kill or even just hurt the damned thing, make it bleed. It snapped at him again, and he kicked it right between the eyes, warding it off for a moment, giving him precious time to get out of biting range.

He ripped his side arm free from its holster and opened fire, landing a few shots into the beast's skull. It roared in pain and backed off some more, giving him even more needed breathing room. He scuttled backwards further, through a pool of recently spilt blood, and around a cage containing the festering remains of some unknown animal, his eyes frantically searching for that shotgun. He spied it lying underneath the glass window, just a couple of feet away from him. He smiled in relief and reached for it.

The monster bear roared again and swept one of its great paws out. It caught one of the larger cages and shoved it right at him, with great force.

"Shit!" he yelled, rolling out of the way as the cage rushed past him and smashed into the wall, crumpling as though it were just paper. The shotgun was caught by the fast-moving object and pushed further into the far dark corner, out of his reach. The bear bellowed again, and reared up, raising one of its paws, ready to deliver the killing blow, and Dean didn't think he'd be able to stop it this time.

Two of the cages against the far wall suddenly crashed open and a pair of fast-moving forms leapt out from inside, moving as a blur, landing on the bear's back and darting up to around its shoulder and neck region. It was a pair of infected monkeys, one with white fur and the other with deep brown fur, but both with missing patches of skin and scimitar-like fangs. They screeched as they dug their teeth into the beast's fleshy hide, drawing blood. The monster bear drew back, thrashing around in an effort to dislodge the maddened simians.

Dean just stared up in shock, and at the same time, in great relief. It was somewhat ironic that he was saved from a virus-born monster by creatures of similar origin. But he had to take the opportunity, and he quickly looked back around to see his shotgun wedged into the gap right between the wall and one of the steel holding cages: the most awkward sport imaginable.

"Oh perfect," he muttered, moving over and reaching his arm into the gap to try and grab the weapon's stock, but his fingers barely brushed the steel surface. His arm was practically wedged through the gap, but he still couldn't get it. He clenched his teeth as he reached for the weapon yet again.

The bear monster thrashed around again, and one of the monkeys lost its grip, falling from the monster's shoulder, before it was suddenly grabbed between its teeth and torn away, thrown across the room and smacking against the window. Its pained shriek was cut short as it was reduced to a red splat against the reinforced glass, but its cohort didn't take much notice as it continued to tear at the bigger monster's skin and flesh.

Dean turned away again, stretching for the shotgun once more, and preying that it still had at least one shell loaded into it. He grunted as he failed to grab it once more, his fingers barely brushing at the stock.

The bear twisted its shoulder and plucked the other monster monkey from its perch on its shoulder, slamming it to the floor with bone-breaking force, before bringing its hungry jaws down to its still form and biting its head off in one swift motion.

Dean knew this was the last opportunity he'd have. The bear would likely turn its attention to him now, having dealt with those annoyances. He turned again and reached for his shotgun, the only thing that could protect him now, practically stretching his arm out of its socket to try and grab hold of it.

The bear bellowed again, before it started to stomp towards the human in the corner, frantically reaching for something wedged in between the wall and one of the storage cages. It stepped over the bloody pulp that used to the remnants of two infected monkeys, referred to as 'Eliminators' by the staff that used to work here.

Dean glanced back the beast momentarily, and then concentrated on grabbing for his shotgun once more.

_Almost there…_

His arm burned as he stretched his fingers out, far as possible.

_Just a bit more…_

He felt the bear's hot breath on his back.

_Come on you son of a bitch!_

He reached out once more, and with an extra burst of energy, grabbed onto the shotgun's stock, wrapping his hand around it, before yanking it free and spinning around to confront the monster bearing down on him, its mouth opened, like the mouth of hell itself, ready to swallow him up.

Still lying on his back, Dean pulled the trigger.

BOOM!

The bear's head exploded in a spray of red and pink mist.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The tongue beast shrieked madly, before a solid kick to its face silenced it and flipped it onto its back. As it thrashed about trying to right itself, Ben lowered his aim and shot it through the heart, killing it.

He sighed in relief as he lowered the assault weapon, looking around him at the corpses of the other two skinless monsters that lay nearby, one of them with most of its head blown off, the other's body riddled with numerous bullet holes. Gun smoke lingered in the air, as did the copper tinge of blood. Ben looked around and rubbed his face, tiredly. He didn't know how long he could keep this up for, and that burst of energy and adrenaline came at the idle time for a battle.

He quickly remembered what had just happened previously, and he quickly made his way over to that damned steel door, still in its warped state, impossible to open by any normal means. The one his friend had been trapped behind and he couldn't hear any sound that would indicate someone human being back there, such as gunfire. He started to fear the worst.

Knowing he had to get back there, he tried to think of some way he could get through that door. And at the moment he could only think of one way that was currently open to him. He plucked one of the frag grenades he had been carrying for a while, looking down at it thoughtfully. He didn't know how it would act in a confined space, but he didn't really have the time to find some other alternative.

He prepared himself as he pulled the pin from the explosive device, before rolling it down the corridor towards the sealed door, moving around the nearby corner and preparing himself from the inevitable explosion.

BOOM!

The entire corridor shook, dust falling from the ceiling, fire and smoke gusting down the corridor and licking at the walls, blackening the once flawless steel. Elsewhere, a few steam pipes were ruptured, sending a cloud of piping hot steam into the hallway. Staying where he was for a second, Ben took a few breaths before he peeked around the corner to see the fruits of his labours.

The door was officially no more now, blasted right out of its frame and lying on the ground, just a twisted pile of scorched steel now, the walls either side of where it originally was also bearing deep scorch marks, loose electrical cables flailing freely, the lights in this part of the corridor shorting out. Ben paid that little attention though, as he ducked under a flailing cable and stepped through into where Dean had disappeared to.

The corridor beyond was an absolute mess: crushed and partially-eaten corpses and shell casings littered the ground; the walls were marked with blood spray and deep claw marks, and the lights flickered on and off rapidly, giving him very brief glimpses of the nightmarish scene.

"Oh shit…" he gasped, covering his mouth with ones of his hands. His eyes darted here and there, over each of the bodies in turn. Each one wore a mask of sheer terror or unbearable agony, the sensations they felt when they had first died. Each of them was different in some way, whether it be the hair colour, eyes colour, skin tone or even the general shape of their faces: but every one of them beyond any help now. Luckily, he didn't see his friend's body among the pile.

"Dean, where are you?" he asked silently. And that's when he heard the muffled thump from somewhere nearby. But his time in the R.P.D knew that he knew full well the booming retort of a shotgun when he heard it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dean gasped for breath, even as small blood droplets marked his shocked face. He continued to hold onto his shotgun, smoke rising from the recently fired weapon barrel, even though the threat had been dealt with.

The bear's immense corpse lay on its front just a few feet away from him, obscene amounts of blood pumping out of the severed neck, the remnants of its skull splattered on everything in range. The blood lake was ever-widening now, about to reach his feet. Quickly, he pushed himself up, moving away from the festering body, his shotgun still trained on the open neck wound. He might have destroyed its head completely, the surest way of killing any damned thing in this place, but after all he'd seen so far he couldn't afford to let his guard down now. Finally, he breathed out, lowering his shoulders.

"God, you must really love me," he muttered to himself, holding a hand to his face and lowering his head. During that fight, he was amazed his heart hadn't burst out through his ribcage through the intensity of the whole episode. He should have been dead and digesting in the thing's stomach by now.

_Like I should have been dead at the barricade, or at the zoo and the clock tower…or in the sewers with those damned spiders…_

CRASH!

One of the cages against the far wall suddenly crashed open and a white shape flew out, shrieking wildly and flailing its claws at him. He turned to face it in an instant, knowing full well that his weapon was empty-

A stream of gunfire sounded, and the thing was smacked sideways out of the air, hitting the ground and rolling along for several feet, before it stopped and flipped back onto its feet, revealing itself to be another one of those infected monkeys that had inadvertently saved his life previously, its blank eyes showing an endless insanity. It shrieked again, as Dean managed to load a few more enhanced shells into his weapon thanks to the distraction. He pulled the trigger, and the maddened chimp erupted into a cloud of bloody spray.

Lowering the weapon, his heart rate finally returning to normal, he turned to see the relieving sight of Ben standing in the room's doorway, his AK-47 readied.

"Your timing is impeccable," said Dean, laughing slightly in relief.

"Well I do try," replied Ben flatly, and then noticing the massive dead form lying in the far corner, an ocean of blood spreading below it. "And what the hell was that meant to be?"

"I think it used to be a grizzly bear," said Dean, still somewhat short on breath. "And someone turned it into a damned monster for their own amusement."

"That caused all that damage out there?" asked Ben, giving the dead body a few prods with the toe of its shoe, but it remained still thankfully.

"Seems the likeliest answer," replied Dean, reloading his shotgun, trying to disguise the shaking of his hands after his most recent near-death experience. "It made a hell of a mess of those poor bastards."

"Good thing you weren't among them," said Ben, before quickly adding, "and next time you decide to go off by yourself, you mind telling me about it?!"

"Hey, how the hell was I supposed to know that the door was going to close behind me?" retorted Dean, annoyance creeping into his voice.

"For god's sake Dean, you didn't see them die right in front of your eyes!" snapped Ben back, his anger clear to see. "They were relying on me to get them out, every single one of them! Simon, Max, Roger…all dead, because of me!"

Dean just stood in silent and looked at his friend as he vented, who walked over to one of the walls, leaning back against it and slumping down to the floor, clutching his head as he stifled what sounded like a very brief sob. Ben still hadn't given him an in-depth commentary of what exactly he had gone through before they had joined up, but he guessed it must have been pretty stressful, to say the least.

"And then you Dean…if you'd gone and gotten yourself killed," Ben added, looking up, "I don't know what I would've done."

_Geez…_

"Hey, it's fine man, I got it, look," Dean replied, pointing towards the festering corpse. "It'd take more than a damned rotting bear to take me down," he then added, with a wry smile. Ben looked up at him, still unsure. Dean moved around and crouched down beside him.

"Come on, you remember that promise we made? All that time ago?" he then added, encouragingly. "It was after I first came to Raccoon…"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**June 19****th**** 1996, 2039 hours**

The sun was setting over the peaks of the Arklay Mountains, the sky turned a bleeding orange hue as the sun disappeared for the day. The city of Raccoon was starting to wind down for the night, as the sound of traffic gave way to the jostling and cheering of the crowds heading out for a night out on the town. The countless twinkling lights of the hundreds of homes in the city gave off a remarkable light show.

"Gorgeous, isn't it?" laughed Ben Campbell as he showed off the spectacle to his friend, Dean Travers, who just stood on the balcony of his friend's apartment, overlooking the northern half of the city. The view of the natural scenery, bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun, made the whole thing look rather picturesque, and it also showed Dean the famed natural beauty that Raccoon County was known for, what he had been told before he had come here in the first place.

"I have to admit, that's not bad," nodded Dean, as he walked right up to the edge of the balcony, looking out over the street below. "Kinda reminds me of when we used to watch the sun rise back home at Riverview…" That last statement was delivered as he wore a sad look on his face, remembering the past. Ben seemed to pick up on this.

"Hey, I remember those good old days," he said, walking up beside his old friend and putting a hand on his shoulder. "And I miss them as much as you…but it's time to make some new memories now, right?"

"Yeah…suppose you're right," smiled Dean, turning back to face him, offering a slight smile: not fully convinced. "But what about those ice cold beers you promised, eh?"

"Coming right up," smiled Ben as he disappeared back inside. "You get yourself settled down, OK?"

"Will do," called Dean back as he settled down on one of the steel chairs set out on the balcony. As he settled down, he looked out over his new home and wondered if his coming here would be the start of a golden period of his life. He'd spent the last few years drifting from place to place, settling in New York eventually. His parents would no doubt be glad to hear he had finally found somewhere to settle down.

"OK, one ice cold beverage coming up," said Ben as he remerged onto his balcony, a bottle of beer held in each hand. He eagerly passed one of them to Dean and sat himself down in the other seat, before raising it towards his old friend. "To new beginnings?"

"Yeah, to new beginnings," smiled Dean in response, raising his own bottle and clinking it against Ben's, before both men took a generous swig of their drinks, looking out over the twinkling lights of the city.

"So how was your first day at work?" asked Ben suddenly, turning on him.

"Yeah, it was good I suppose," nodded Dean.

"You suppose?" asked Ben.

"Well you know fine well I have zero law enforcement experience," said Dean, waving his hand about. "You know it probably won't be long before I screw up and shoot some poor suspect dead."

"Hey, there's a first time for everything!" laughed Ben, giving his old friend a slap on the back. "4 weeks time and you'll be fine, honest."

"Well if you say so…"

"I do say so," said Ben encouragingly. "Honest, you'll do great, friend's honour."

"Yeah, friend's honour," nodded Dean, looking out over the view of the cityscape again. After a few seconds he turned back to look at his friend again. "Look, whatever happens-"

"Yeah?"

"-I wanna make this work," explained Dean, putting his bottle down. "You know a lot of people didn't like what I did…running out on my responsibilities."

"Hey, a man's free to make his own decisions in the world," replied Ben. "That's what I did, wasn't it?"

"Well some other people didn't see it that way," replied Dean, shaking his head. It had already been 4 years since he had left the place he had grown up in, and even after that amount of time some people still called him a fool for just walking away like that. Walking away from what he was supposed to do…

"I wish things could go back to how they were before," he then said, taking an old tattered photograph out from his jeans pocket. When Ben saw it, he recognised it well: taken around 4 and a half years ago, on that old wooden bench just outside of Richmond University, where they and their other old friends, Travis and Cameron, had attended in the past. Himself and Dean were sat on the bench itself, while Cameron and Travis were both perched on the back part of the bench. Cameron was smiling normally, but Travis was grinning in a cheesy manner, while doing the bunny ears with his fingers behind Cameron's head. They were all dressed in their casual clothes, their backpacks dropped on the ground as they posed. In between Dean and Ben was a younger girl, with kind green eyes and long dark hair: Dean's little sister, Lisa. She was still at high school then, but she always hung out with them anyway: their own little clique, separate from everyone else in town.

"Yeah, I miss those days too," smiled Ben, taking the photo from his friend and turning it over in his hand. Written on the back in black ink was the date: 06/29/1994. "Hey, how about we make a promise."

"What's that?" asked Dean.

"Well it's pretty simple," smiled Ben. "If things here don't work out, for whatever reason: then we go back home, back to Riverview. We go back to how things used to be…allright?"

Dean looked at him for a while, thinking his options over in his head. He'd walked away from his responsibilities all those years ago, and if he just walked back into town as though nothing had happened-

"I don't think it'd be that easy to just go back as though those 4 years hadn't happened," he said eventually.

"Well whatever happens, you'll have my support," replied Ben, putting his drink down. "That's in the past. Like I said, you made your own choices."

"Yeah," nodded Dean. "I suppose you got a point there."

"So do we have a deal then?" asked Ben. "Come on man, don't leave me hanging in the breeze!"

"Fine, fine!" laughed Dean, holding his hands up. "You got your wish. It's a promise. If my career as a law enforcement officer turns to shit, then we go back home and we start over again."

"Friend's honour?"

"Why of course," grinned Dean, picking up his bottle, and waiting for Ben to do the same. They then chinked the bottles together and took another swig, cementing that promise.

"Sounds good," smiled Ben, passing the photo back to Dean.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The same photo that was now held in Dean's hand, slightly more beat up, but still in good condition. He showed it to his friend again, trying to bring him back from the dark mood he was currently in.

"You remember what we discussed?" he asked, making eye contact with Ben. "Going back to how things were before?"

"Yeah…"

"You still want this?" he then asked. "Because I still do. And the only way I can go back is if I get out of this damned place…but I can't do it alone."

With that, he tucked the photo back into his rear pocket and stood up, extending his arm out. Ben just looked up at him, unsure.

"Come on Ben, you did so much for me when I first came to this city," Dean explained, sincerely. "Now I need you to help get us both out of here…we both need to go back home. We can't let anyone down. Not Travis, not Cameron…our families." He looked straight ahead as he said that last part, before swallowing quietly. His eyes looked sad, mournful almost, before he looked back down at his old friend.

"Come on, Ben. We've been through so much together: so let's add one more thing to that list." Ben Campbell looked up at his friend for a short while, before he straightened his face and took hold of the offered arm, allowing himself to be helped to his feet.

"Yeah, let's do it," he said, firmly. "It's not everyday you get to survive an outbreak of the undead, right?"

"No," smirked Dean, before the two of them shared a quick laugh, one that helped to dissipate some of the seriousness of their current situation, until Ben picked up his assault rifle and checked it over, before looking around the room.

"What the hell were they doing here?"

"I think this is where they stored their B.O.W's," explained Dean, looking at some of the desiccated corpses still in their holdings. "All the little failures that didn't work out."

"Bastards," muttered Ben, shaking his head, before looking over at the corpse of the massive beast his friend had presumably tussled with beforehand. "And who the hell thought infecting a bear would be a good idea? That's just messed up."

"Well trust me, it was more messed up when it was trying to maul my face off."

"And you killed it?" asked Ben in disbelief. "By yourself?"

"I got lucky," explained Dean, taking out a handful of enhanced shotgun shells and showing them off. "Point-blank headshot with one of these…took its head off straight away."

"I suppose you owe Mac big time," noted Ben, "wherever he is now."

"Yeah…" said Dean sadly. His mind went back to that warehouse. The image of James MacCormack, falling to the ground with his throat torn open by a Hunter's claws, flashed in his mind. A spike of pain shot through his heart. "Dammit Mac…" he then said. Ben seemed to pick up on this, and he frowned.

"We owe all of them one," he said. "They knew they were expendable assets…but they still made an effort to save anyone they could. They achieved that at least…so maybe they can rest in peace now."

"No, they won't be able to rest until we get them out of here," said Dean, taking out the plastic bag containing all of the dog tags for the fallen U.B.C.S members they had received shortly before Robert Devlan's unfortunate departure from this world. "Every single one of them."

"Amen to that," agreed Ben as Dean tucked the bag away again. After a few seconds of silence, he changed the subject. "But what the hell happened? That door wasn't open before!"

"It shut by itself," said Dean, matter-of-factly. "Someone locked me in with that…thing-" he indicated towards the dead bear- "to have it try and kill me."

"I'm inclined to agree," nodded Ben, glancing at the general mess the room was in following Dean's tussle with that monster. A lot of the cages were half-crushed or warped beyond recognition, and the bloody pulp of what used to be infected simians were littered here and there also, including the remains of one smeared all over the window. "Someone let those zombies out of quarantine as well…that wasn't pleasant, let me tell you."

"Seriously?" asked Dean, surprised. "You allright?"

"I'm fine, relatively," smiled Ben. "Though one of those tongue monsters destroyed my shotgun," he then added, shaking his head. "Good thing I picked up this assault rifle, otherwise I'd probably be dead now."

"Well it's a good thing the gun's in pieces and not you," joked Dean.

"Maybe," agreed Ben, looking around. "But who would want to do that though?"

"Someone's still alive down here," said Dean darkly, "and they don't want us to find them."

"Why the hell not?" asked Ben in disbelief. "It's bad enough monsters are trying to kill us, but not humans as well?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," said Dean, thinking of the incident with Campbell back at the clock tower. "Someone down here thinks we're a threat, so they're trying to get us killed." He glanced up as he said that, and saw the blinking red light in the far corner of the ceiling, attached to a stationary security camera.

"Look," he then said, pointing. "They've been watching us since we first came in here."

"So what are we supposed to do now then," asked Ben, "if they're out to get us killed?"

"I don't know," replied Dean. "But if it's a case that they're trying to kill us, we'll need to defend ourselves."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Donovan had been raging when he saw what had happened on the screens. He had managed to separate the two assassins from one another, locking one in with that bear monster, and leaving the other to fend off a group of zombies and Re3's, yet both of them had managed to triumph in the face of impossible odds, despite the director's best efforts to aid the monsters in fulfilling their tasks.

But now his rage had fallen silent as he stared at the camera showing the western B.O.W storage room. The two assassins had regrouped, and were now staring silently at the camera he was currently viewing. They started to talk among one another. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but it was pretty obvious to work out what it was they were discussing.

They had worked out what was going on…that he was trying to kill them purposely from elsewhere in the facility. And after they had realised that, they'd likely be redoubling their efforts to track him down and take the daylight samples. He couldn't allow that to happen though: he'd been assigned something important and he would stick to that duty for as long as he lived. He took several deep breaths to calm himself down, thinking over his options in his head.

They still had a good amount of space to cover before they would get anywhere near him, and there was always a good chance they would be killed before they did find a way to him…and he still had control over most of the facility's functions from here. He still had quite a few tricks up his sleeve, and he'd exhaust every one of them to keep himself safe if he had to. And if things came to the worst-

He pulled the still-loaded handgun across the table towards him. He'd shot a man dead once before, and he'd do it again if needed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The rest of that section of the facility held little else of interest, aside from the dead bodies and blood sprayed up the walls. The other room though held something of interest though: it seemed to be some sort of computer room, the walls each featuring a pair of computer desks complete with high-end monitors and keyboards. Beyond them, six computer servers stood in the room, deep black towers with blinking lights and multi-coloured wires trailing out from each one. This room felt about twice as hot as any other room in the facility, probably due to the massive servers working on overtime.

"Wow," said Ben, walking up to one of the computers and knocking off the screensaver, a small Umbrella logo that danced around the screen in a random fashion. When he did knock it off, the screen showed a number of files on screen waiting to be opened. Curiously, he clicked on one and it opened a still shot of a serious close up of one of those crimson zombies trapped inside a steel cage, each sore and cut on its flesh clear to see, its sheer white eyes burning in its sockets. Its blood-stained claws were wrapped around the steel bars as it desperately tried to get at whoever had taken the picture.

"Oh that's appealing," noted Dean sardonically as Ben clicked on another photo, and was treated to a shot of another one of those crimson zombie, this one wearing the tattered remnants of what looked like a white lab coat, its torso mangled beyond recognition. It didn't seem to take much notice of the camera, instead staring at some point at the far wall. Noticing a blue link glowing on the screen, he clicked on it, and a page of research notes flashed up.

_Research Findings Delta-3: 'Crimson Head'_

_It seems that the T-Viruses' regenerative capabilities continue even after the death of the original host, as long as death isn't caused by destruction of the head area. In some rare cases this effect happens on hosts that are able to live on for extended periods of time, but such instances are very rare. _

_Either way, these new forms (dubbed 'Crimson Heads' by the late staff at the Arklay Facilty, which seems very appropriate), are much faster and viscous than regular T-Virus hosts have ever been recorded as being. This is possibly because the virus' regenerative capabilities have reduced the flesh decay enough to allow for increased speed of movement. As for the blood-red skin, the flesh regeneration increases the pressure of blood moving around the body to the extent where it starts to seep through the skin. But we still have no direct explanation as to how or why the finger claws develop...probably a result of bone mutation, we believe.  
_

_The resemblances to the Re3's can't be denied. There must be some link between the two B.O.W types…_

"Least someone found the time to do some work in this place," he muttered, shaking his head. Nearby, Dean knocked off another screensaver and found another set of notes on screen, which he quickly read over.

_B.O.W File Omega #3 _

_Designation: 'Ursinex'_

_Originally a grizzly bear found roaming the forests surrounding the Arklay Mountains, and bought in by one of our teams as part of a stupid dare. When initially administered with the T-Virus, few changes were viewed, aside from the usual necrosis and hunger for flesh normally experienced in T-Virus hosts. It looked as though this test was going to be yet another dead end for our research. _

_But then we administered the Progenitor to the subject, and it underwent a sudden transformation. Its muscle growth increased considerably and its aggressive nature was raised to an unprecedented level, causing it to attack anything in reach. These characteristics are somewhat similar to those displayed by the simian-based 'Eliminator' B.O.W's we currently have in storage as well. But the usefulness of this B.O.W's combat abilities are limited to say the least, as it's practically uncontrollable, and lacks any rudimentary sign of intelligence: just an animalistic instinct to attack and kill anything it can reach.  
_

_But Donovan still thinks there's some use for this B.O.W. A use for a monstrously powerful beast that can't be easily controlled? I seriously doubt that…_

Of course, Dean knew full well what this thing was capable of…having just killed it some minutes beforehand. Barely, he might add.

"Poor guy," Ben said suddenly, stepping around one of the monitor tables. Dean followed his gaze to see a dead body slumped into the corner near to one of the computer servers, propped up in a pool of its own blood. Surprised that he hadn't noticed it before, he moved around to get a better look at it. It was another of the security guards, his stomach torn open and his loose guts spilling out like discarded ribbon. His face was oddly passive, despite the hideous pain he must have felt before his death. He didn't have a gun anywhere near him, and most of his clothes were shredded badly by something sharp.

One hand was clutched to his body, and the other one, laying at his side, was holding onto a small object, as though his life depended on it. Carefully, Ben stooped down and prised open the man's fingers, already beginning to set due to rigor, taking it for himself. As he stood back up, he glanced down at the thing he now held. It was a small plastic card, deep black in colour, marked with a magnetic strip and with two white X's on one of the corners.

"Isn't this the armoury keycard?" asked Ben, remembering what that guy Pete had told them beforehand.

"Looks that way," smiled Dean. "Now maybe we can start loading up on some serious firepower."

"Sounds good to me," smiled Ben as he dropped the card into one of his pockets. "Come on, we should head there now."

"Way ahead of you buddy," said Dean as he started to make a move towards the door, but his attention was caught by yet another monitor screen, this one seeming to show the profile of a member of staff. "What's this?" he then asked, moving around to get a better look at the glowing screen.

The top right corner of the screen was taken up by the picture of a middle-aged man with receding blonde hair and a rather grim-looking face, complete with disturbing beige-coloured eyes. The rest of the screen was taken up with the information pertaining to this guy himself, including stats such as height, age, blood type and so forth.

"Donovan…" he muttered, reading the surname at the top of the page, as Ben moved around to have a better look.

"That name again," said Ben, skimming over the writing on the screen. The name given to them by the dying people encountered upstairs was still fresh in the back of his mind.

"Says here he's the head of this facility," said Dean, pointing to a part on the screen that read 'Position: Facility Head'. "So this was the guy they were talking about..."

"And maybe he's the one still alive down here, locked up somewhere safe and cosy," added Ben, still reading off the man's bio, until he came to a part headed 'Psyche Evaluation'. "What the?"

"Well maybe it was necessary for all employees," noted Dean, seeing the same part on the profile. "Though after all that's happened, maybe you had to be insane to work for Umbrella." He started to read off the lines, and it didn't paint a very pleasant picture.

_Personality: Perfectionist, someone who lives only for their work. Something of an admirable quality with Umbrella, though it could conflict with the attitudes of the others he works with.__ Seems to suffer from something as a god complex as well: he views the other staff as his 'disciples', and has an intense need to prove himself to high command, despite viewing his current position as 'hardly worthy of mention'._

_He's convinced that he should have become the head administrator for the main city lab rather than William Birkin, which would likely explain the scorn he feels towards the senior members of the Corporation, in particular the Board of Directors and Lord Spencer himself. He believes that due to his family's high standing in Umbella's history, he should have been given some more high-profile position, despite the fact that he totally botched his first supervising position some years ago. A simple clean-up op at a holding facility out in the mountains nearly turned into a full-blown outbreak. Only the intervention of the USF managed to stop things getting out of control, and it was only Spencer's intervention that stopped him being forced out of the company afterwards as well. _

_Either way, he's determined to prove himself in his new position, but some of the staff had already reported his erratic behaviour to the corporation's disciplinary body, so whether he's able to maintain a decent record for any period of time remains to be seen._

"Sounds like a fun guy," noted Ben sarcastically.

"Someone was reading up on this guy's background," said Dean, turning back to face his friend. "But why?"

"Who knows?" replied Ben. "But either way, if he's the one still alive around here, we should be careful."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Donovan wished that these cameras had sound, so he could tell what the two assassins were discussing. They were in the data archives now, looking over the various files shown on the screens, in particular the one showing his staff profile, information he'd rather they weren't privy to. Information they could use to their advantage.

That profile hardly showed his best side. How he screwed up his first duty with the company, turning a simple clean-up into a near full-blown outbreak, and losing countless staff in the process. The board wanted to string him up for what had happened, but Ozwell Spencer, remembering the Donovan family's services to the company, spared him and assigned him a role as head of this very facility, 'a job that a blind monkey could do', the others had simply referred to it as. Yet he had been given a rare second chance, and he wouldn't screw up again.

Could this be regarded as a screw up, he wondered? No, he didn't cause this outbreak. He had rallied his staff as the streets became overrun with the undead and other monstrous horrors, keeping them safe, and also making efforts to further Umbrella's research, despite the fact the city was likely doomed. He had the fruits of all that extra research on the desk before him: 3 manila folders full to the brim with all of the results of their work over the last day or so, lying next to the case of daylight samples. Though he still didn't know how he would get them to Umbrella, what with the upper world practically destroyed.

He'd still make the effort though, to prove himself. This job was all he had left in his life now, and he couldn't afford to lose it now…he wouldn't let anyone compromise that. He glanced over towards Captain Becket's corpse, the memories of that incident coming back to him…

**12**** hours beforehand…**

He had been sat in his office, looking over the files of results given to him, when Captain Becket first entered. He was holding a bunch of grainy photos that one of the security teams had bought back with them. It was hard to tell what the pictures showed exactly, but if one looked closely they could make out the outline of a huge figure, its face marked with an insane grin. He had seen something like this before, during a conference with Umbrella Eruope officials…could this have been the so-called 'Nemesis' they had been working on? And if it was, why was it here at any rate?

Along with that was the autopsy report on one of the bug-like monsters another of the teams had bought in, already dubbed 'Drain Deimos' by the researchers, due to their method of feeding from prey, sucking the blood clean out of their necks. Of course, one of the guards had died discovering this fact, but a worthy loss, he noted. This new creatures were definitely above the Chimeras from a battle-ready standpoint.

He had already filed the documents away when the door opened and Captain Becket, a tall blonde-haired man with broad shoulders and deep blue eyes, entered the room. He was dressed in his plain black uniform, his sidearm holstered at his waist. Donovan noticed that the holster was already half-opened, along with the stern look on the captain's face, as he marched right up to the supervisor's desk.

"Hello there captain," he said, sounding disinterested, "how can I help you now-"

He was cut off when the captain slammed his fists into the top of desk. The sudden sound caused the facility head to jump in shock.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Donovan?!" he asked, stabbing a finger at his superior's chest. "At least a dozen of us are showing T-Virus symptoms, and all you can do is sit here and read your goddamn reports!" The fury in his voice was unmistakable.

"Well I'm sorry if my duties take priority," replied Donovan, trying to sound confident in the face of the larger man's anger.

"Your duties?" asked Becket in disbelief. "The whole town's going to hell in a hand basket and all you care about is your damned test results! What about the duty towards keeping your staff safe, eh?"

"All of the ones showing symptoms of infection have been sealed away from the others," noted Donovan, calmly. "As long as that quarantine is upheld, there'll be no further danger of infection." The captain laughed in disbelief.

"You seem so sure of yourself," replied Becket sarcastically. "I'm not an idiot, Donovan! I know about the virus' infection rate: in every instance of an outbreak, there's been a 100% mortality rate. Even if you seal the infected ones away, the virus will find a way to infect the rest of us!"

Donovan sat in silence, the words seeming to sink in.

"We need to get the hell out of here now!" urged the captain, stabbing a finger into the desk top to empathise his point. "For God's sake sir, unlock the station and let's get out of here, all of us! There shouldn't be anymore needless deaths!"

"I hope you're not a coward, Captain Becket," asked Donovan, fixing him with a firm glance from his disturbing beige eyes, "running away from your duties. I for one, will uphold my position, no matter the situation. And besides, Umbrella will take us away from here in due course."

Becket scoffed. "I'm not a coward, but I know when a cause is lost! Its bad enough you sent us up there to bring back 'specimens' for our gracious employer. It's bad enough that you shot Mike just because he refused to go topside. But this is too much. For god's sake sir, there is nothing left here worth dying for! The city is burning to the ground, what could possibly be left to salvage here? And besides, it's not just me that feels the same way: everyone wants to get out of here!"

Donovan bit his lip after that most recent outbreak. "I gathered they would see it that way. That's why I unleashed the virus in the first place."

Becket blinked in surprise.

"You what?"

"I unleashed the virus in here, of course," replied Donovan, as though it were blindingly obvious. "I predicted that not everyone would be inclined to stay here and do their part, so that's why I released the virus in the air-filtering system. Think of it as something of an encouragement to help staff productivity."

Becket stared at Donovan for what seemed like an age. Then he swung his right fist at the supervisor's face, full force.

CRACK!

His fist made contact with Donovan's cheek, with enough force to knock the weedy supervisor from his seat, tumbling to the floor. The small man barely had enough time to clutch a hand to his cheek before the furious captain was hovering over him.

"You callous bastard!" he yelled, stabbing an accusing finger at Donovan. "You've doomed us all, just because we didn't jump off the cliff when you said to!" Donovan said nothing as he cowered in fear and shock.

"I read your file as well, sir," said Becket, mockingly. "How you screwed up your first duty for the company. That simple clean-up nearly turned into a full-scale outbreak, thanks to you!"

"Those fools were incompetent!" yelled Donovan back, unrepentant. "Just like the rest of you. You're all stupid fools, and if it wasn't for me you'd all be dead by now!"

"We'll be dead soon anyway, thanks to you!" retorted Becket, before stooping down, bringing his face right up to Donovan's. "And you're not just incompetent…you're insane, unleashing the virus on your own people. You've lost it!" Donovan just stared back, breathing hard.

"I don't have to explain myself to you, you low-born shit!" the facility head suddenly spat, pure venom in his voice. "My family is one of Umbrella's most prestigious lines, we were born for greatness! I-"

"You're nothing but a spineless little weasel," retorted Becket, reaching into the other man's pocket suddenly and pulling out the master key, the only key to the emergency train platform, holding it tightly in his left fist. "I'm taking everyone else with me and we're leaving on the train, period. There's no need for anyone else to die."

"You're not going anywhere!" yelled Donovan, struggling to his feet. "I command you-"

"You don't command me anymore Donovan, or the rest of us," said Beckett, turning on his supervisor again. "I'm declaring you unfit for duty, something that should have been done a long time ago." And with that, he turned his back and headed for the door.

Donovan watched the captain's back, eyes wide with rage. He had done his best to help them all, and now it had come to this: insubordination, of all things. How dare they treat a member of the distinguished Donovan line with such contempt! He glanced around the room, spotting an elaborately carved letter opener, made from ebony, lying on the corner of his desk. Without a second though, he grabbed it in his hand and charged at Becket.

"You'll do as I say!" he screamed, letter opener in hand. Becket whirled around, in time to catch the tip of the tool through his stomach. The blonde man gasped as the blade easily punched through his clothing and skin, into his vital organs. He looked down in surprise into the beige eyes of Donovan, who now wore a mask of pure rage.

"You're nothing Becket," he growled, venomously. "You and all the others!"

Becket raised his fist and punched Donovan squarely in the face, the facility head tumbling back into his desk, the letter opener withdrawing from the captain's wound and clattering to the floor, along with a fair amount of blood. Becket staggered back, the master key tumbling from his grasp. As blood continued to pour from his wound, he grabbed for his sidearm, at the same time as Donovan reached into the open drawer of his desk and pulled out a H&K P8 handgun. Both men aimed at one another and fired at practically the same time.

Despite his military training, the weakness he felt from blood loss caused Becket's shot to sail over Donovan's shoulder and embed itself into the wall. In contrast, Donovan's shot found its mark in the side of Becket's neck, spraying even more blood up the wall behind him. Becket collapsed face first to the ground before sprawling onto his back, trying to gasp for breath, but it was pointless as blood trickled from his ruptured neck.

Donovan stared at the fallen captain in shock at what he had done, before he had a quick thought and he turned back to his desk, hitting a small black button built into the small control panel set into the wood. There was a resounding 'click' as the door into the office locked by itself. A split-second later, the sound of fists banging against the wood could be heard.

"Captain Becket, what's going on in there?!" yelled one of the guards outside.

"Answer us sir! Please!" yelled the other. Donovan ignored them both as he walked up to Becket's body, before stooping down and picking up the master key again, noting the look in Becket's eyes. He was…pleading, almost, begging for anyone to help him out, but Donovan was unrepentant.

"Sorry captain, but your services are not required anymore," he said calmly, almost too calmly, before raising the gun over the fallen man's face. Becket reached out weakly, a beg for mercy spilling from his blood-stained lips. "And besides, I'm getting sick of the sight of your smug face."

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Donovan lowered his gun as the sound of the last shot filtered away, smoke trailing into the air. The banging at his office door became more incessant.

"Captain, what's going on?!"

"You see Becket," said Donovan, spreading his arms either side of him, "I am God down here, you will all do as I say, you hear me? Do you hear me, you little runt?!" his tone became louder, more hostile, more insane.

"Donovan, what's going on?" asked one of the voices outside.

"HE'S DEAD!" screamed Donovan in response, turning towards the door. "He's dead because he opposed my lead, like the rest of you! You're all damned now, so enjoy your insignificant lives while you still can!"

"Oh god Director Donovan," asked one of the voices, "what have you done?!"

"Something I should have done a long time ago!" yelled Donovan back, sitting back down in his chair and looking over the files again, ignoring the pleading cries of Becket's men beyond the closed door. He then took out a small pocket book, scribbling some notes in it, over the sound of the banging of fists against the door.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Becket had discovered what Donovan had done regarding the spread of the virus within the facility, and had threatened to evacuate what remained of the staff using the train. But he couldn't allow that to happen: if they abandoned their duties here, Umbrella would see that as a failure on his part, and they would terminate his position. He couldn't allow that, and he took drastic actions.

After killing his head of security, he locked himself away in his office, while the others succumbed to the virus outside. Within 6 hours, most of them were dead or zombified, a few others still holed up somewhere safe, but with the Re3's and some escaped Drain Deimos wandering about via the ventilation system, it was only a matter of time before they were rooted out and killed. They all deserved to die, for opposing his strategy. He was too valuable to Umbrella to leave behind, he knew it in his bones.

He leaned back in his chair and ran a hand over his lips, over the cut that had now fully healed. Those injuries he had recieved previously from the angry captain still stung somewhat. But in his twisted mind, his actions were perfectly justifiable. He'd do anything to prove his worth to Umbrella…and he'd let nobody stand in his way.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ben passed the card in front of the electronic reader just outside of the heavily reinforced armoury door, and there was a resounding 'beep', before the small light turned from red to green, and the sound of the lock coming out of place could be heard as well.

"Success," he announced with a slight grin.

"Let's go get tooled up then," agreed Dean, quietly. He was still feeling fairly shaken from that encounter with the infected bear, or the 'Ursinex' as that computer file had referred to it as. Ben didn't notice this as he pushed the door open with a bit of effort, stepping inside.

The armoury was a cold concrete room about 20 feet long and 10 feet across, one wall occupied by at least a dozen steel gun racks set into the concrete, the other occupied by a series of wooden tables laid out with empty boxes of various ammunition and spare gun parts, including handgun slides, telescopic sights and folding stocks for S.P.A.S 12 shotguns. A fair amount of empty shell casings and gunpowder pots were littered here and there as well. From the looks of it, most of the armoury had been cleared out already.

"Looks like there's not much left here," noted Ben.

"Well either way we need to use what we can get," replied Dean, trying to remain positive after the trouble of finding the key card into this place. "Come on, let's have a closer look."

Most of the ammo had been taken, as expected, but they still had some luck, as Ben came across a few spare magazines for his AK-47, while Dean turned up a box of 14 shotgun shells, along with several loose enhanced shells. From the looks of it, the people here had been mixing up their own powerful ammo variations to combat the monsters running about, but it clearly hadn't been much use to them. Also found were a couple of boxes of the special 'Black Taurus' handgun bullets, loaded with explosive powder and at least 3 times more powerful than regular 9mm parabellum.

Ben picked up what looked like a scope attachment, and looked down at it from above, noticing the small red laser dot painted against the far glass lens. It was a simple red dot sight, designed for better accuracy when firing at distant targets. Thinking it would be a decent aid, he clipped it onto the top of his rifle, replacing the standard iron sights, while Dean opened one of the far weapon lockers and got a nice surprise.

Propped up in the base of the locker was a large revolver-style handgun, a S&W M29, to be precise, one of the most powerful handguns ever made. It used .44 rounds, enough to blow a person's head clean off, supposedly. He picked the weapon out of the locker and held it in his hands, noting its considerable weight over a 9mm handgun. He clicked the cylinder open and saw that the gun was already fully loaded. With a smile, he gave the cylinder a spin, before flicking the gun and snapping it back again.

"Barry would approve," he said to himself, remembering the former S.T.A.R.S Alpha Team weapons specialist and his love for magnum-based weapons. Looking down again, he saw a few spare speed loaders also in the locker, and quickly retrieved those as well, dropping the spare rounds into his sidepack.

"Looks like you found yourself a nice gun then," noted Ben suddenly, appearing at Dean's shoulder.

"Well waste not, want not," smiled Dean, tucking the heavy weapon into the back of his jeans waist. "Wish there was one for you as well."

"Hey, I'll manage," joked Ben, as he showed the fresh handgun magazines he had picked up, passing a couple to his partner.

"I suppose that makes us even then," laughed Dean, as Ben then altered the strap on his AK so it hung less awkwardly off of his body. "Got enough rounds for those guns?"

"Don't worry about me," replied Ben, levelling the heavy weapon before him. "What about yourself?"

"I should have enough for now," said Dean, checking over his supplies. "Long as there's no more zombie bears running around the place."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ozwell Spencer may have retired for the night, but he was still expecting an important visitor to see him before the day was out. He was sat in his wheelchair, gazing out of the huge window of his room, deep in his thoughts. He had to admit that many of the directors had a good point: even if they did their best to cover up their involvement in this outbreak, the truth would find its way to the surface sooner or later. But Umbrella's funding was considerable, and he could use it to draw out the legal proceedings, giving the company valuable time to continue their work. Every day would count in the wake of this disaster.

There was a sharp knock on the door.

"Lord Spencer?" asked the voice of Reynard, the CEO's chief of security.

"Yes?" asked Spencer in that croaky voice of his, turning his wheelchair to face the door which now creaked open.

"He's here," announced Reynard, a tall bullish-looking man with short dark hair shaved very close to his skull.

"Send him in," said Spencer, taking the control stick of his wheelchair and moving to a position next to a large oak table, where a few glasses, along with a decanter of fine spirit, was set. He was starting to take the decanter and fill one of the glasses up when his guests entered the room.

There were three of them, all imposing figures. The leading one was over six feet tall, dressed in a long blue military-style coat, complete with khaki fatigue pants and brown boots, his long grey hair tied back into a ponytail. His face looked as though it were carved from granite, one of his eyes taken a long time ago by an old war wound, the scar remaining years after. The other two figures were even larger; at least 8 feet tall each and both were dressed in a long ankle-length trench coat, sheer arctic white in colour, along with heavy boots of the same colour. Both were utterly bald as well and wearing different-coloured shaded eye visors into the bargain: one blue, one orange. Their faces too looked as though they were carved from solid rock as well. All three of them came to a halt several feet away from Spencer. The lead figure clicked his heels together and clasped his hands behind his back.

"Ah, Sergei," said Spencer, looking up finally. "Good to see you again."

"Lord Spencer," acknowledged the visitor, in a heavy Russian accent.

Sergei Vladimir once served as a colonel in the Soviet Union years ago, but following the fall of that body, he directly approached Umbrella and offered his services. It was very unusual in itself, as Umbrella often approached former soldiers to offer _them _work, but they still accepted the Colonel's offer. And in time, he had found himself promoted to the position of Spencer's chief enforcer. He had proven himself to be resourceful, utterly ruthless and loyal to the extreme, ideal qualities for any respecting Umbrella-owned soldier. Spencer remembered that time he suspected that some of the staff at one facility were actually government moles, and he asked Sergei to deal with the problem. The Russian wasted in time in promptly ordering the purge of the entire facility, some 100 people at least. Sergei had even gone onto found the U.B.C.S, the Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Service, a unit tasked with cleaning up the 'messes' caused by the corporation's experiments.

And he had proven useful in another way to Umbrella: Sergei's genetic template was found to be highly compatible with the T-Virus, so researchers had used samples of his DNA to further research into the Tyrant bio-weapon. They had even created several clones of the Colonel himself, and these clones became the basis for the new mass-produced T-103 Tyrant model, along with its numerous variants, such as the 'Ivan' model, which acted as Sergei's personal bodyguards. From the time when Sergei started to work for the company, they had achieved things that would normally have taken at least a decade to achieve.

"Could your guards please give us a moment?" asked Lord Spencer. Sergei just nodded, before he looked at the two Ivan's and motioned towards the door. The Tyrants just turned and slowly walked out of the room, taking up position at the wall directly opposite the door. Once they had left the room, the CEO's guards stationed outside pushed the heavy doors shut. Spencer picked up the other empty glass and offered it to his enforcer.

"I don't drink, Lord Spencer," replied Sergei, to-the-point.

"As you wish," said the Umbrella CEO, setting the glass down. "Why not take a seat, Sergei?"

"I would rather stand," replied the Russian quickly. Despite all of his good points, Sergei was rather too cold for comfort.

"So, what news do you bring me?" asked Spencer instead, ignoring the last remark.

Out in the hallway, Reynard and one other bodyguard stood on either side of the now closed doors, looking up at the huge giants in the sheer white coats with nervous glances, similar glances they shared with one another. The two huge figures took no notice of the much smaller men, just staring straight ahead. Reynard wondered if they were even human, or were they manufactured B.O.W's that the company created-

One of the giants, wearing an orange eye visor, suddenly turned its head to stare down at him. Reynard's heart caught in his throat, before he quickly took a deep gulp and tried to steel himself. The giant turned its head away from him again, and the bodyguard relaxed.

"…contact has been lost with most of the supervisors sent in with the U.B.C.S," explained Sergei to Spencer, hands still clasped behind his back. "From what we can gather, most of them have been completely wiped out. If there are any survivors, then they must be the exceptional ones."

"But what of the data we have received so far?" asked Spencer, passing over the fact that at least a 100 men had been sent into that necropolis just so they could gather combat data on the numerous bio-weapons created by the virus.

"Our researchers are already analyzing the data as we speak," answered Sergei. "Suffice to say, we have a mountain of data at the moment. The zombies themselves might be as smart as a brick wall, but there might still be some potential for them. The entire population was infected within a few days, after all. The T-Virus could potentially destroy this entire world if it managed to escape the city."

"A terrifying thought indeed," muttered Spencer. Raccoon City may have been an acceptable loss in some points of view, but if the virus got outside of the city, _everything _would be for naught. "It must be hard for you, Sergei," he then said suddenly, changing the subject.

"What must be hard, Lord Spencer?" asked the enforcer.

"Throwing away the entire unit you formed, just for the purposes of our research."

"If it was your wish to sacrifice my unit," replied the Russian with a slight smile, "then it is a necessary sacrifice that I will allow to happen."

Spencer was constantly impressed by Sergei's willingness to carry out his wishes, even the most radical requests, but this was above all of that. Despite founding that unit, spending so much time in scouting out the ideal candidates to become members, and personally overseeing their training, he had just agreed to throw them away without skipping a beat. His devotion to the Umbrella cause was commendable.

"We all appreciate your sacrifice, Sergei, I assure you," the CEO said instead. Sergei seemed pleased with this, and nodded slightly. "But what about Umbrella Europe?" he then asked. Even though the European and American branches of Umbrella were meant to be part of the same body, it didn't always mean that they didn't always have the same goals in mind.

"Umbrella Europe?" asked Sergei. "It seems they have unleashed a 'Nemesis' into the city, to track down the surviving S.T.A.R.S members…the ones who saw what happened at the mansion."

"A Nemesis, you say?" asked Spencer, intrigued. "Either way, that saves us the trouble of having to deal with them ourselves. And what of the G-Virus?"

"Contact still hasn't been confirmed with the USF team that were sent to retrieve it," replied Sergei. "It's likely that they've all been killed by now. By what, that is unknown."

"I see," replied Spencer, stroking his chin. Birkin's creation was too valuable to let go, lest it fall into the hands of any of the corporation's rivals. And that fact that Birkin had spent so long perfecting it…shame to let all of that hard work and funding go to waste.

"Mobilise a unit of T-103's. We can send one of those to go after the virus," the CEO ordered, taking a swig of drink from his glass.

"Consider it done," nodded Sergei. "And what of the other units?"

"Keep them on standby," replied Spencer. "Just in case."

"As you wish," nodded the towering Russian.

"You have done well so far Sergei, but I have another task for you," added Spencer, setting his glass back on the table again.

"What is your wish?" asked Sergei in an emotionless tone, the same statement he always used when Spencer asked something of him. Spencer was silent for a while before he spoke.

"Are you aware of the U.M.F 103?"

Sergei thought for a moment. "The computer bank that holds all of the company's test data?"

"Correct," nodded Spencer. "I need you to extract the core from our HQ in Raccoon City, or failing that, a copy of all the data."

"_All _of the data, Lord Spencer?" asked Sergei.

"All of it," confirmed Spencer. "We can't afford to lose that core in the city's destruction."

"As you wish," nodded Sergei. "Where shall I store the bank though?"

Spencer thought for a moment before he replied. "Take the data to our facility in Russia. It's our most well-guarded facility, so the data shall be safe there…and we need a new centre for our research once Raccoon is destroyed."

"Consider it done," nodded Sergei. "Is there anything else, my Lord?"

"There is…one more thing," said Spencer suddenly, having a sudden thought.

"Yes?" asked Sergei.

"Do you know of Daniel Lindeman?"

"You mean…the director of New York's facility?" asked Sergei after a brief pause.

"The very same," nodded Spencer. "I have the distinct feeling that he no longer shares the same goals as the rest of us do. Keep a close watch on him; see what it is he's planning, if anything."

"And what if he plans a betrayal?" asked Sergei, though he already knew what the answer would be. He had carried out a similar wish so many times before.

"Then dispose of him," said Spencer flatly. "Through the usual means. Make it look as though it was a terrible accident, bought on by the stress of this entire situation."

Sergei smiled. "It could be difficult for a man of my means, Lord Spencer, but I will make an extra effort."

"That is good to hear, Sergei," replied Spencer, taking another small swig from his drink. "That is all. Dismissed." The towering Russian colonel bowed in reverence at his lord, before Spencer pressed a button on his wheelchair and the huge doors were opened once more by the guards waiting outside.

"Please escort the colonel back to his transport," ordered the ancient CEO, and the bodyguards nodded in acknowledgement. They lead Sergei out of the room and away down the corridor, followed by his towering bodyguards. Once they were gone, Spencer finished off his drink and put his glass down, offering himself a long sigh as he did.

_Sergei…you've done so much for this company, I don't know how we could ever repay you. But in the end you're just a pawn, like all of the others. Your usefulness will cease sooner or later. My plans must be fulfilled, and no-one will stand in my way…_

**A/N: Dun dun dun! *cue dramatic music* And the plot thickens…****but first I'd like to discuss a few things.**

**First of all, ****Sergei Vladimir is a character who only appears in Umbrella Chronicles, but if you haven't played that game, the basics of his character are explored in this chapter. If you want to know more, play the game, or just read his Resident Evil Wiki article…its what I did. And also, the huge guys in the white coats and visors are the 'Ivans', upgraded T-103 Tyrants that act as his personal bodyguards, and which turn up as bosses in UC as well. **

**And what's this about Spencer's ultimate goals? Play Resident Evil 5 to find out. (Suffice to say, I'm not spoiling it for those who haven't played it yet.) Also, that part about the Nidpaya tribe also refers to Resi Evil 5's story.  
**

**Also, I plan to do something different for the next chapter. It'll be something of a one-man show, focusing on one single character over the entire chapter, and exploring his past in more depth. So watch this space. But for the moment, I plan to update a few chapters for 'Tales from the Necropolis'. **

**As usual, R+R please. Otherwise, I'll send the Nemesis round to your house. **


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24: Fade to Black

**September 29****th**** 0139 hours**

It was the start of another day. But in Raccoon City, that meant yet another day of bloodshed and horror. The once vibrant industrial town resembled a necropolis now, a place devoid of any life, aside from the undead things that wandered the streets, and other monsters too horrific to recall to mind. Some of the buildings were starting to crumble, while piles of twisted car steel blocked off most of the major roads and avenues through the city. Fires raged out of control as well, columns of smoke billowing into the sky, giving the entire scene a highly sinister feeling.

The remnants of Raccoon's population wandered here and there as well, moaning hungrily and staring straight ahead of them, waiting for any form of live prey to wander by. But there was little left now: pretty much the entirety of the city's population had been reduced to a second existence as undead flesh-eaters, a fate worse than death. They would continue to search for fresh meat to feed upon until they had wasted away, or until someone put them out of their misery.

In a cramped alleyway located off of one of the streets in downtown Raccoon, a zombified police officer stood in one spot, swaying lightly on the spot. In his first life he used to be called Derrick Saunders, one of the more recent recruits to the R.P.D, a young man with a fresh face and short dark hair, but now he was looking just a little worse for wear: one of his arms had been ripped off at the elbow some days before by the insane men and women who had suddenly flooded Raccoon's streets, chasing down everyone else and killing them brutally, eating them alive where they fell. In addition, most of the flesh on his face had been eaten away or it was peeling off of the bone, giving him a very stomach-churning appearance.

He'd been unable to stop those lunatics the days previously, even as he unloaded his SMG into their bodies, shredding their skin, muscle and bone. They just kept coming, rolling right over them. Porter was killed when they swarmed around him, tearing off his limbs and feasting upon his organs as he lay there screaming. Theo was the next one to fall: even though he used his shotgun to blow several of those damned things away, they still pulled him down and ripped his throat out. And not long after that, the rest of them fell, and no wonder: it was only 3 of them against a massing crowd of at least 50. He had tried to flee, in terror for his life: but is haste meant he ran headlong into even more of those things, and his fate was sealed.

He moaned weakly and took a single, shuffling step towards the opening into the street, where even more of them had now gathered, around an abandoned R.P.D S.W.A.T van, tearing and feasting upon the remains of the fallen police officer who had died where they had stood and fought. Somewhere behind him was a second zombie, an average-sized man in civilian clothing, one of his arms hanging off by the few strips of flesh that hadn't been ripped off when he was attacked during his afternoon nap, a few days beforehand. Neither zombie seemed to notice it when a shadowy figure suddenly scaled the wire mesh fence at one end of the alleyway and dropped down, expertly landing in a crouch. A few more seconds later, the figure came up behind the first zombie and grabbed it in a chokehold with one arm, before driving something into the back of its neck. The undead monster spasmed once, and then crumpled face-first to the floor.

Derrick didn't notice this, too fixated was he on the stench of fresh meat, just somewhere beyond his direct sight. He took another shambling step before he suddenly heard the sound of breaking glass from behind him, quickly followed by someone cursing under their breath. Derrick immediately started to swing around, driven to investigate any sound, just as rapid footsteps were then heard.

As Derrick turned around fully, a heavy weight slammed into him and forced him onto the ground, at the same time as a strong grip took a hold of his neck and something very sharp impaled him through the side of his head. The zombie thrashed as the object lanced its brain, and then everything went dark.

* * *

Back at the eastern checkpoint, Mike Parkman clambered into the cargo bay of the Blackhawk helicopter for what seemed like the umpteenth time since his unit had first been mobilised here. He hadn't slept in at least 12 hours, running purely on caffeine and sheer will to keep going. On the last two recons, they had only extracted 3 people. 3 people, from an overall population of 100,000. He shuddered to think just what proportion of that number had been reduced into those shuffling, shambling…things.

"Hey Mike?" said a voice from the cockpit, and the corporal turned to regard the face of Kirk, the pilot. "You allright buddy? I can get someone else to take over-"

"No, I'll be fine," replied Mike, rubbing his eyes tiredly, his flight helmet lying at his feet.

"You keep going like this and soon enough you'll need to be airlifted to a nice warm cot!" replied Kirk shaking his head, though he didn't press the matter any further. He strapped on his helmet and started to switch the systems on, bringing the chopper online, its rotors starting to pick up speed. "Well anyway, its time we got going again."

"Roger that," sighed Mike, picking up his helmet and strapping it on, before taking out his Beretta handgun and checking that it was fully loaded, pulling the slide back to prep the weapon. He then turned to the two gunners also in the bay with him. "All set?" Both men nodded in reply.

"Allright, let's get this over and done with," Mike announced, linking himself onto one of the overhead rails and giving Kirk the thumbs up. With a smile in return, the pilot lifted the chopper off of the ground, the gusting winds stirring up various small debris littering the busy ground. Once it had reached the ideal height, it turned and banked away towards the still-burning city in the distance.

* * *

After a few seconds of deep breathing, he pushed himself off of the disgusting zombie that he had just tackled to the ground forcefully, his combat knife still embedded in the side of its skull by several inches. Already burgundy was gathering below its ruptured head, as he quickly wiped some of the filth off of his clothing, though he needn't have bothered: his beige combat pants were smeared with blood from the knees up, and his light green shirt was in a similar condition, along with being ripped and torn in at least a dozen places, the sleeves ripped away completely to expose his thankfully unmarked flesh. His black tactical vest was in a bad way as well, barely hanging on by its shoulder straps, ripped and torn by countless zombie nails.

But yet he was still alive, against all odds. Robert Devlan was still alive.

After he had helped Dean and Ben to scale that wall, he had intended to end it then and there, but then he noticed a door out of the corner of his eye, a door that none of them had previously noticed during the tense struggle there. Taking the chance, however slim it would be, he had tossed the grenades and ran for it, pushing past the zombies that weren't decimated by the massive blast and busting through the door. He had to break past even more zombies during his passage through that building though, and as a result he expended the rest of his ammunition along the way: he even lost his beloved modified rifle, the same one that had saved his life countless times during his career with the U.B.C.S. All he had now was his combat knife, and that was only useful if he could get close enough to the zombies without them sensing him.

His escape had taken him too far away from their goal to even contemplate going back, and even his attempts to find an alternate route ended in failure, as zombie citizens choked the main roads, and practically every building was sealed, as a barrier against zombie invasion no doubt, but were now acting as barriers to even him. To take the long but safe way around would have taken too long to even comprehend, so that had left him with little option but to turn back. Where to, he didn't know. He just started to wander aimlessly, heading back into the city centre, sticking to the alleyways, picking off lone zombies when he had no choice, but staying well away from the larger groups. He was just making this up as he went along.

He stared down at the remains of his latest kill, a police officer in his former life, missing one of its arms and the majority of the flesh on its face, the rest of his uniform splattered in his own blood. He wondered briefly in this man was a friend of Dean or Ben's, but then he imagined that it wasn't worth dwelling on those details for too long. Glancing down, he saw that the man still had his sidearm holstered at his hip. Blessing his luck, Robert stooped down and carefully removed the Beretta handgun from its holster, checking it over. It was still fully loaded: looked as though the poor guy had been killed before he even had a chance to draw it. Checking the officer over some more, he found a couple of spare handgun magazines, dropping them into one of his tactical vest pockets. He searched a little more, and turned up a car key, probably the one to the man's cruiser.

Devlan rose to his feet and looked around towards the exit onto the street. He saw a half-obscured S.W.A.T van out on the open street, surrounded by a handful of zombies, some of them feasting upon the fallen, while the others just wandered aimlessly about. Holding the recently-acquired handgun in his hands, he carefully stepped out onto the street, sweeping through 360 degrees to check for any threats in the street. But one direction was totally abandoned, aside from the long-standing wreckage of a crashed pick-up truck, and in the other direction were a handful of six zombies, too busy with their own business to notice the live human standing about 15 feet away. So he decided to take the oppourtunity.

BANG!

A blonde male zombie suddenly crumpled forward, blood issuing from the back of his skull. His cohorts finally reacted, turning to face towards him, or rising up from their meals to attack the fresher prey before them. A pair of zombified citizens rose up from the ruptured corpse of a S.W.A.T member, who started to sit up and rise soon after, despite the fact that his intestines and most of his other internal organs were hanging out. Devlan stood his ground as the five remaining monsters approached, moaning weakly in harmony.

He quickly raised the handgun again and opened fire.

BANG! BANG!

Two more zombies crumpled to the floor with perfect shots to the head, before he fired yet again and dropped a former S.W.A.T member to the ground, blood spraying from just below his nose. That left just two more zombies left, a female civilian in a torn blouse and blood-splattered jeans, and the S.W.A.T member with his internal organs hanging outside his body. Devlan paused to consider them for a fleeting moment, wondering what lives they may have had before it was all turned upside down by the virus outbreak. But there was nothing of their old lives left now, just that insane hunger which drove all zombies to kill.

BANG!

The female went to the ground with a perfect shot to her forehead, and wanting to finish on a flourish, he charged at the final disgusting zombie. When the creature made a lunge for him at the last moment, he quickly sidestepped the clumsy move, drawing his combat knife and swinging it around, stabbing it into the monster's neck. Blood squirted out of the wound, and the zombie tried to reach out for its intended prey again, but Robert rammed the barrel of his pistol into the thing's eyeball and pulled the trigger, blowing its brains out. The monster fell to the ground, its weight dragging him off of the merc's blade and to the ground.

Taking a moment to wipe the blade clean on his pants leg, he sheathed his knife away again, and looking around him one more time. Luckily, no more zombies had been drawn out by the sudden noise created, and he breathed a rare sigh of relief. That's when he saw the street he was on seemed to have been formed into some form of crude police barricade, the S.W.A.T van and a lone police cruiser blocking across most of the street's span, the valiant members of the police force lying where they had stood and died. The ones that hadn't come back as zombies were the ones so badly chewed up that there wasn't much left of them to still walk around. Looking at the police cruiser, he walked up to it and tugged on the handle, but to no avail. Then realising that he had the key from before, he took it out and turned it in the lock, opening the door with a resounding click.

He threw open the door and checked inside, seeing there was nothing of use there: the spot where the shotgun would be was empty, and the storage dockets were empty of anything remotely useful aside from a few personal items and random knick-knacks. But then he popped the glove compartment open, and inside was a spare Browning HP handgun, along with a few spare magazines for it. Knowing that he had to take any opportunity he was given, he reached inside and retrieved the weapon, tucking it into the back of his pants, and also dropping the magazines into one of his vest pockets, making a mental note of where exactly they could be found for quick access in battle.

After a few more seconds, he grabbed for the radio and cycled through any of the available channels he could work out, but nothing could be heard, except for the constant fuzz of static. Dropping the radio back into the empty cruiser, he slammed the door shut and glanced about again, searching for anything remotely useful within the vicinity. His sight settled upon the nearby S.W.A.T van, its rear doors flung wide open, as though inviting him to step inside. Taking the Beretta in hand, he carefully stepped around so the open doors were in clear view. There was nothing inside, aside from the odd blood splatter here and there, and a few empty weapon magazines and numerous spent shell casings. In the far corner a lone S.W.A.T member was slumped, most of his brains splattered up the wall behind him. There was an abandoned M4A1 rifle lying just beside him, blood around the weapon barrel. It looked as though the poor bastard had chosen to blown his own brains out rather than face the monsters lingering just outside.

Clambering into the van, Robert walked up to the body and carefully picked up the rifle, turning it over in his hands. It was a very standard-issue weapon, not as heavily-modified as his beloved rifle, but still featuring a red dot sight and a tactical grip. And besides, despite specialising as a sniper in the U.B.C.S, he was still a decent shot with an M4 and other rifle-type weapons. Checking the weapon's mag, he found that it was nearly fully loaded, and searching the man's body, he found 4 spare magazines, and he wasted no time in putting them into one of his vest pockets, opposite of where he had stored the handgun magazines away.

All set, he dropped out of the van, his boots landing on the concrete hard, before he turned and started to walk away down the street, away from where he had come from, and back towards the city centre. As he walked he glanced behind him to see if anything was trying to follow after him, but the street was practically empty. He clutched the rifle in his hands, holding it so that he could easily level the weapon at any immediate threat in the vicinity. He figured he'd be safe from the other B.O.W's if he stayed out in the open street, though he'd still have the ever-present zombies to deal with. Though they were nothing compared to the Hunters, and those bug-like monsters.

He passed onto a junction, and glanced this way and that, seeing that zombies loitered in both directions. Weighing up his options, he turned and trudged up another empty street, passing by a row of empty stores, their windows either smashed in or boarded over, as some means of keeping the hungry monsters wandering the street out. He briefly wondered if anyone else was still left alive in those buildings, but then he shook off the thought that he'd go and try to help them. It wouldn't help to have anyone else following him around: he'd just be a liability to them all now.

He paused when he reached the next section of street. Dead bodies and shell casings lined the ground, but the bodies weren't just of any normal civilian. They were clad in khaki combat pants, olive green fatigue shirts and black tactical vests, spent weapons lying near to where they had died. Their bodies were a chewed-up mess, but he still recognised several of their faces.

The members of U.B.C.S Delta Platoon. He was remembering now. He glanced up at a nearby building, a tall water tower placed upon its roof. It seemed so long ago now, but in reality it was at least three days ago. When the U.B.C.S had first received the order to move into Raccoon City…

* * *

"_PULL THE LINE BACK! FOR CHIRSTS SAKE PULL THE LINE BACK!"_

_Down in the street below, U.B.C.S Delta Platoon stood ten abreast, firing wholesale into the crowd of zombies marching up the street towards them. Dozens of them fell, but there were even more to bring up the rear. Joel Setzer was at the very front of the line, shredding bodies with his massive M249 machine gun, shell casings falling like hailstones. Several feet away, zombies crowded around those who had already fallen, tearing away at their bodies. _

_Up on the roof, Devlan fixed his sights over the face of a bald middle-aged man and pulled the trigger, popping the head like a blood-filled balloon. Next to him, Roy Kessler fired away with a PSG-1 rifle, scoring a good number of kills as well, but it wasn't making much difference to the scene down below. On the roof across the road, the other sniper team from Delta Platoon were being attacked by a flock of maddened crows, screaming and thrashing about as the black birds ripped at their exposed faces and arms, tearing off strips of their flesh. In his desperation to flee, one of them suddenly plunged from the roof, spinning as he fell before landing on a wrecked sedan with bone-breaking force._

"_MEDIC!" screamed someone from down below, over the cracks of Devlan's modified rifle. _

_Lee Myung tossed a frag grenade into the crowd, the erupting explosion tossing a dozen bodies and mangled body parts into the air, blood raining down all over. Medic Will Daniels ran to aid one of his fallen comrades, but he had already bled out by the time he got there. The British man swore loudly as he rose back to his feet, shouldering his M4A1 and opening fire once more. _

"_Keep it together!" yelled Lieutenant Nicholas Johnson, his green beret standing out within the middle of the firing line. He grabbed the shoulder of one of his men, dragging him backwards, and firing his own M4A1 with one hand. More bodies fell, but even more zombies marched over the fallen, intent on feeding on the living. From somewhere nearby, screaming and constant gunfire could be heard. _

_A voice suddenly crackled over Devlan's radio. It was Archer, a sergeant within Charlie Platoon. _

"_Delta, this is Charlie," he yelled, over the background noise of frantic yelling and gunfire. "We have suffered heavy causalities, repeat, suffered very heavy casualties! We need backup, now! Is there anyone still alive, dammit?!" _

_There was a pause in the feed, before one last message was heard. _

"_Fuck! We weren't prepared for this, no-one could prepare for this! This is hell on earth!"_

_There was one last cacophony of moaning, and then the line finally cut out._

He opened his eyes and took a deep breath, his heart rate returning to normal. It wasn't a pleasant memory to say the least: men who were like family to him killed and dragged down, by the people they were ostensibly meant to be saving. He glanced to the side, seeing a broken body lying on the mangled steel of a sedan, his arms and legs splayed to the side, blood staining his uniform. In the street itself lay countless zombie bodies, and somewhere within the pile were the remains of his comrades, most of them chewed up beyond recognition. He couldn't make out any noticeable facial features, or even the nametags on their bodies…though they might still be useful to him in other ways.

He approached the closest one, picking up the discarded M4 rifle and checking it. It was bone dry, and he tossed it aside, stooping down and checking through the man's pockets, turning up two full magazines, and pocketing them for his own use. He then moved onto the next body, lying 15 feet away, and raided its pockets in a similar manner, but he turned up nothing. He did manage to scavenge a total of four frag grenades from the man's form though, and he clipped these to his tactical vest immediatly. But otherwise this man had completely expended all his other ammunition in that previous battle, like so many others of his unit. He wondered if any of them were still alive somewhere, fighting for their very lives…

He heard a very weak moan from near him, and he quickly turned, his rifle raised as one of the U.B.C.S corpses suddenly dragged itself to its feet, its emptied M4 rifle still hanging from around its neck by a nylon strap. The body's torso was ripped and torn apart, exposing the ribs and several internal organs, while his head area was obscured with blood and dirt, so Devlan couldn't tell who it was: which was just as well, lest it make his next act harder to perform. The body swung around to face him and took a shambling step forwards, moaning yet again in a pathetic manner. Devlan raised his rifle to eye level and fired.

There was the sudden sound of the weapon's discharge, and then the zombie was smacked over onto its back, half of its head erupting into a shower of red and pink gore. It lay on the ground for several seconds, blood still pumping out of its ruptured head, even as several more shambling forms started to emerge from the shadowed alleyways in the street, or rising up from the fallen ranks of the U.B.C.S. Devlan started to slowly back away as at least a dozen zombies started to converge on his location. He backed away from them, keeping a tight grip on his weapon, before he finally chose flight over fight, and he turned away, sprinting away down the street.

As he ran, his mind started to wander away from his current situation, back to where it had began for him, in what seemed like a million miles away from this death trap…the start of his eventual journey here.

* * *

32 years ago, Robert Devlan was born to Adam and Margaret Devlan, residents of the small town of Hope Falls in Washington, so he grew up within a small, tight-knit community. His father had been the town's sheriff for some 5 years by the time of his birth, and his mother was a respected member of the town's council. His parents treated him with love and care, and his childhood was a happy one. He remembered most nights, when his father came home, that he would run at him, beating at his legs, so overjoyed to see him.

"Hey Robbie, why so strong?" his father would ask, looking down at him, beaming widely. His father looked a thousand meters tall in his official sheriff's uniform, complete with the glittering bronze star pinned to his breast. "Did you miss your old man?" he would then ask, stroking his son's hair.

"Uh-huh!" answered a young Robert, wide-eyed and smiling.

And then most nights, his father would take him into the family home's store room, and he would dig out the old boxes stored on top of the wooden wardrobe, filled with stacks of old grainy photographs, letters, journals and shiny trinkets, from the past. According to his father, they belonged to Robert's grandfather, Samuel Devlan, who had served as a Lieutenant in the 15th US Infantry Regiment during the Second World War, his platoon being one of the first American fighting units to break through into the heart of Nazi Germany itself. Adam would often sit his son on his knee and hold up numerous grainy photographs, pointing out a figure in each of them: a tall figure with dark hair and handsome features.

"Your granddaddy was a great man, Robbie," he would say. "They said he was one of the bravest soldiers who ever served in the history of the regiment."

"He was a brave man, daddy?" asked Robert, excited. "Like you are?"

Adam laughed heartily. "That's right son," he answered, taking up one of the shiny objects contained in that same box. "He was so brave he was given one of these." It was an object made from fine silver, about the same size as his father's badge, and engraved on the front was the name 'Samuel R. Devlan'. According his to his father, this was something called a 'Congressional Medal of Honour', an award which was gifted to only the most celebrated men who served in the military.

"We're descended from a hero, Robbie," said Adam Devlan proudly. "Never forget that, no matter what happens in life, OK?"

"I won't, daddy," replied his son.

"That's my boy," nodded Adam Devlan.

Though unfortunately for the entire Devlan family, this bliss wasn't due to last. By the time that Robert was 5 years old, there was something brewing all across the country, something that would drag his father in and spit him out the other end a changed man. His father actually left home, leaving his current duties to respond to a 'higher calling'…to serve the same duty as Robert's grandfather had done so. He didn't know exactly where his father had gone at the time, but he only knew it was some place far away from home, across the other side of the world. Some place called Vietnam. The year was 1971.

* * *

In the present day, Robert opened his eyes and took in a sharp intake of breath, looking around him quickly. He was a different city street now, one that looked relatively untouched by the entire outbreak, aside from the abandoned cars parked across the centre of the road. He was stood in the middle of a large group of them now, most of them with their doors left wide open. Many of them still had the keys in the ignition, the fuel long burnt out of their tanks, headlamps slicing through the relative darkness. In the car next to him, he saw a child's teddy bear carelessly discarded on the passenger seat. His heart broke thinking of the children caught up in this old mess, and of the sheer terror felt, so much so they had to abandon their beloved toy to do so.

He moved on, his boots echoing down the street, over the whistling of the early morning wind. It felt as though he was the only living soul left in this city now, and it wasn't a stretch of the imagination to believe that. He turned his head, and saw a lone newspaper blowing across the street towards him. It came to a stop just next to his foot, and he glanced down at the front page, laid out for him to see.

_The Dead Walk!_

On the front page was a large grainy picture of a shadowy figure advancing towards the camera, smeared in blood from the waist up. The image had become scarily familiar to him during his career with the U.B.C.S: he had lost count of the number of times he and his colleagues had been dispatched to some anonymous facility in the middle of no-where, and being faced with a wall of living dead, that damned stench of decay filling their nostrils and stinging at their eyes. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, and suddenly he was back there again, the year previously…

"_Pull back! Pull back!" screamed Lt. Johnson, firing his M4 one-handed down the corridor. The combined storm of gunfire, sparks and ricocheting bullets was overpowering, as was the stench of decayed flesh and gunpowder._

_Stationed at the end of the concrete corridor, Robert Devlan fired on the shambling figures choking the opposite end of the passage, blowing several skulls into bloody chunks, but even more were lining up behind to take the place of the fallen. Among the blank faces he saw the visage of Weller, the squad's new guy, with this being his first mission. Suffice to say, he had failed miserably, the blood still pouring from his recent neck wound. _

"_Shoot! Shoot!" yelled Taylor Drecker, sweat dripping off his brow, before his weapon clicked on empty. Someone else was dragged down, screaming like a banshee._

"_Goddamn monsters!" cried someone else, frantically reloading their S.P.A.S 12 shotgun._

"_Pull the line back, pull the damned line back!" _

Robert opened his eyes again, and he was back on that empty city street, by himself. The smell of decay and gunpowder was gone in an instant. Sighing to himself, he quickly stooped down and picked up the newspaper at his fate, noting the date on the front page. It was marked the 26th September, the same day they had first come into the city. Seemed as though someone has worked out what was actually going on, but of course by then it was too late. He tossed the paper aside like trash. Then he glanced around again, and his gaze settled on a large building on the right hand side of the street.

It was a church, a moderately sized-one at that, about the same width as one of the neighbouring apartment buildings, its spire extending some 50 feet above his head, the bronze image of Christ on his crucifix set atop the very point of the spire. The brick walls were set with a large pair of stained-glass windows, depicting important religious scenes that he couldn't recognise off the top of his head. Robert was never a religious man in his whole life, though he always appreciated how people normally found sanctuary in their faith: though he wondered how long it would have taken these people to realise their faith had abandoned them now in their hour of greatest need.

Curiously, he started to walk forward, towards the church. As he drew near, he saw that the large double oak doors had been smashed in off of their hinges, splintered wood littering the ground. Taking up his ready stance, M4 raised, Robert approached the doors, peeking inside, but it looked clear, so he stepped fully into the church's entrance hall, looking around him.

The hall was a well-decorated room, old oil paintings depicting a variety of religious scenes and figures, while a variety of golden decorations, such as candlesticks and other relics, lined the mantelpiece stretching across the far wall of the hall. A small marble font stood in the very centre of the hall, set up in the middle of a fine red rug with golden designs. It was filled with holy water, though that water was now stained deep crimson with a few splashes of blood, which also marked the edge of the font. He looked down at the murky water for a few seconds, before he turned away and looked up at one of the walls, which had been stripped bare of any paintings or other decorations, and in their place was a message, hastily written in large letters with bright red spray paint.

_THE END IS EXTREMELY FUCKING NIGH._

Robert was inclined to agree, after witnessing the mess Raccoon City had been reduced to. He was distracted then by a faint sound coming from through the other double doors in the hall, directly opposite from the entrance doors. Turning swiftly towards the source of the sound and raising his rifle, he slowly crept forwards, pushing open the doors quietly, stepping through into the church's main hall.

The room was at least 30 foot long, complete with at least two dozen wooden pews, each of them at least 10 feet across, leaving a narrow aisle in the middle for people to walk down, while numerous huge stone pillars rose to the magnificently-designed ceiling, far above him. A painted mural, depicting a heavenly scene complete with angels and a bearded figure surrounded by a bright glow, dominated the middle of the ceiling. Robert hated to think how much was spent of the lavish decorations of this building. He shifted his gaze away from the ceiling, moving towards the pulpit at the far end of the hall, set up so it overlooked the congregation when they gathered for mass or other ceremonies.

A large pile of corpses was mounded up before the pulpit. It was impossible to count how many were there exactly, as they were so tightly packed together: it looked as though they had been killed on the spot, died together. Blood was smeared all over them, making it impossible to work out their features or even the colour of the clothes they had been wearing previously. A few severed limbs and digits, mainly fingers, littered the ground around them. The stench of copper was obvious, and bloated flies buzzed around the corpse pile, the low hum of their flight audible to Robert's hearing. Looking over the scene with little interest, he then spoke out, shattering the silence.

"Hello?"

The pile shifted suddenly, and Robert hopped back, raising his rifle towards the pile. Among the carpet of bodies, a quintet of figures arose, moaning weakly and reaching out towards him in unsteady steps. The nearest one was a young male from what Robert could see. Flies had already gotten to work on his body, and maggots writhed about in a horrific wound on his face, dripping off onto the ground as the man approached. Beyond him was a middle-aged woman wearing a shredded blue dress, one of her arms just a bony stump jutting out of her shoulder joint. Her blood-smeared face remained blank.

Robert was about to aim his weapon and fire when he felt a strong hand grab his shoulder, and he quickly turned to look into the vacant face of a bald man who had suddenly appeared behind him, the left side of his face ripped away to expose the entire length of his jaw, right to his very back teeth. He seemed to grin insanely, before lunging forward at the U.B.C.S sniper's neck. In response, Robert grabbed a hold of the man's chin, forcing him back far enough to jam the barrel of his M4 into the man's open mouth.

BANG!

The man was thrown backwards a few feet, most of his skull blown into chunks, blood streaming off into the air. Robert quickly turned before the corpse had hit the floor, facing towards the zombies still in the area. Raising his rifle to eye-level, he opened up, sending red-hot lead into the monster's soft bodies. They shuddered in place as the 5.56mm rounds tore right through skin, muscle and bone, their blood splashing onto anything else within range. The chattering of his rifle's automatic fire drowned out the monsters pathetic moaning as they slumped to the ground one at a time, their torsos ripped apart. One of them overturned a pew nosily as it fell face-first to the stone floor. And then all was silent again, aside from the sound of Robert ejecting the empty magazine from his weapon and letting it clatter to the ground, reaching around in one of his vest pockets for a spare.

Just then a previously unseen door in the shadows to the left suddenly opened, and Robert swung around to face it, his still-empty M4 nearly falling from his grasp, tearing his recently-acquired Beretta handgun free from his leg holster as well, aiming it at the outline of a human figure he could detect just out of his immediate sight. He prepared to pull the trigger when-

"Don't shoot!" cried a rather weak-sounding male voice, as the figure stepped into the low light, his hands held out before him. Robert realised it was a middle-aged balding man, complete with brown eyes and a neatly-trimmed black beard. He was dressed in the traditional clothing of a priest, complete with a long black smock, and a set of rosary beads, hanging around his neck. His face looked drawn and tired, though his eyes still had a fearful aura. And the fact some random guy was aiming a gun at his head probably didn't help that fearful state much either. Slowly, Robert lowered his weapon.

"Sorry," he said quietly.

"I never thought I would ever see another human ever again," the priest said, walking forward towards Robert, who towered over him by at least a few inches. "God still hasn't abandoned this city, it would seem." Robert just looked on as the priest looked him up and down, taking in his bedraggled, blood-stained appearance. He looked as though he'd just walked out of the mouth of hell itself.

"But either way, it is fortunate you came," the priest then added. "Quickly, come with me." And then the holy man was turning and walking back through the door he had previously just entered from, pausing in the doorway to turn back. "Hurry!"

Left with little other choice, the U.B.C.S merc followed after the priest. The doorway lead through into a plain looking passageway, complete with wood-panelled walls and blue carpeting. As he followed the priest up the corridor, Robert noticed the several large blood drops on the floor, leading up towards the other door at the opposite end of the corridor. They paused slightly as the priest quickly unlocked the door with a brass key produced from one of his pockets, and ushered the way inside.

The room looked like some form of study, complete with a large writing desk to Robert's right, and a line of bookcases against the wall to his left, several of them removed from their places and lying spread out on the floor, discarded. Then directly opposite, there was a wide doorway that lead through into another part of the room, where he could see the back of a figure sat down in a wooden chair, thrashing about constantly in place. Robert stared in silence as the priest moved through into the far side of the study, moving around to stand on the far side of the seated figure, keeping a wary distance. Robert wondered what the hell was going on, though he were about to find out.

"Please…she needs help," pleaded the priest, indicating the seated figure. Robert carefully moved forward towards where the priest was sat, and the familiar stench of blood and decay smacked him in the face like a wet towel. He carefully skirted around the seated figure, taking note of their appearance. It was a female, her curly red hair a tattered mass all around her head, her outfit consisting of a red woollen sweater, and a floral print skirt that went down to her ankles. As Robert circled around, he could see that she had been tied down to the chair, thick ropes coiled around her feet and wrists. But when he was fully standing in front of her, he could see why.

She was a zombie. The pale skin and the glassy-coloured eyes made it rather blatant, even behind her gold-rimmed spectacles. She thrashed around constantly, growling and snarling like a wild beast, bloody spittle flying off in thick drops as her jaw tried to snap at him, out of reach. The Umbrella mercenary had to step back a little in shock as she made a lunge for him. He stared down at her for a few seconds, as she pathetically tried to break free from her restraints. The chair that was holding her prisoner was creaking constantly as she moved around, sounding as though it were close to falling to pieces.

"My sister…she needs help," pleaded the priest from beyond the seated zombie. "Please, she's sick!"

"How long has she been like this?" asked Robert, curiously. His grip tightened around his handgun.

"The last day or so," replied the priest, pointing towards the scene of his zombified sister. "I thought she was going to be fine, but she's like those other abominations! Please, you need to help her!"

Robert ignored the man's pleas as he looked down at the zombie again. He noticed that the front of her sweater, and most of the area around her chin and mouth was slick with fresh gore. There was a small puddle of it on the floor around her feet as well, and he saw the remnants of body parts stewing in it as well: pieces of skin or small bone fragments. Slowly, he turned around, towards the desk at the far side of the room, and he saw the small pile of severed body parts sitting atop of it, the blood spilling out of it and onto the carpet. He saw the large butcher's knife lying next to the severed parts as well, coated in blood. He turned back towards the middle-aged man, and saw the somewhat guilty look on his face. And then he managed to piece together what had been happening in this room.

"You've been feeding her?!" asked the amazed Umbrella merc.

"…she's my sister; I couldn't just leave her to the fate as the rest of them!"

"And would your Lord look kindly on you mutilating your fellow man to keep this…monster alive?" retorted Robert, indicating towards the restrained zombie.

"She's not a monster!" yelled the priest, his face turning red from anger. "She's my family!"

"She's not your sister anymore!" cried Robert back, his tone becoming more hostile. "She's just like the rest of those monsters, and the best thing we can do is put her out of her misery!" As if on cue, the zombie suddenly tried to lunge at Robert once again, her teeth snapping at thin air. The mercenary stepped back in surprise, aiming his handgun at her blank face.

"No!" cried the priest loudly, putting himself in between Robert and his zombified sister, holding one of his arms out to shield her from harm.

There was a terrific _crack _of wood as the zombie suddenly ripped one of her arms free from the chair, the arm rest flying freely away from its setting, while the woman, finally free, swung around and grabbed a hold of her brother's arm, sinking her teeth into his bicep.

The poor man screamed in agony as blood squirted from his wound, his black clothing quickly becoming sodden with his own blood. He tried to tear his arm free, but his sister wasn't letting go, as she ripped her other arm free from her restraints, bringing her jaws back to go for a second bite.

BANG!

She suddenly released her grip, falling backwards in the chair, landing flat on her back. Blood squirted from the fresh bullet wound in her forehead, and the chair smashed into pieces with her final death throes. Robert Devlan stood off to the side, smoke issuing from the barrel of his recently fired Beretta handgun. The priest was leaning against the nearby wall, blood still pumping out of the ugly wound in his arm. He gritted his teeth as he clamped his hand over the bite mark, but crimson still leaked out from between his clenched fingers. He stared down at his sister's body, his eyes slowly widening in horror.

"I'm sorry," said Robert finally, lowering his weapon, but avoiding eye contact with the priest. "I had no other choice. She would've ripped your throat out otherwise."

"No," replied the priest, struggling to his feet, still clutching his wound. "Eleanor…she wasn't the loving sister I knew anymore. She lost her soul…just like all those other people have." He slowly walked over towards his sister's body, looking down at her, and then he looked back up, at the ceiling. "Oh Lord…what have we done to deserve this? Is mankind such a deplorable species that we are forced to destroy one another in this way?"

_Maybe we are…_though Devlan from nearby. _The ones responsible for this mess don't give a shit about the rest of humanity…_

There was a long pause, the only sounds being the steady breathing of the priest, as he pondered his faith for several long seconds, before he finally turned back towards Robert, the blood flow from his wound finally stopped. His face looked drawn and tired when he next spoke.

"Kill me."

Robert blinked in surprise from the man's request.

"Please…kill me," the man continued. "I've seen what happens to anyone who's bitten by one of them." He looked down at his sister's body again, solemnly. "I don't…I don't end to end up like her…like a ravenous beast, always hungry, never satiated."

He turned back towards Robert, resigned to what would hopefully come next. "So please…just end it for me now, before it begins." Robert looked away for several seconds, pondering his choices in his head. It was a horrible thing to imagine, killing someone on the spot. But though he would be doing the poor guy a favour: if he were in the same situation, he would want someone to do the same for him.

"OK," he said finally, looking the man in the eye. "I'll do it…it's the least I can do for you."

"Thank you," the priest sighed, before closing his eyes and lowering his head, before he finally lowered his posture, kneeling upon the ground. Then he took hold of his rosary beads in one hand, cradling them as he started to mutter some unknown prayer to himself. Robert continued to stare down at him for several seconds before the priest spoke again.

"I hope you find your peace in this world, my brother," the man said, still clutching at his beads.

"There's no peace left in this world for me," whispered Robert in response, raising his Beretta and aiming it down at the man's head. He pulled the trigger after a long pause.

BANG!

A few minutes later, Robert Devlan walked out of the church silently, staring straight ahead of him, breathing slowly and calmly, despite what he had just done. He kept on walking in that direction, even as he heard the fresh moaning from all around him. He finally came to a halt in the rough middle of the street, looking around him as he saw the shadowy figures starting to emerge, from out of open doorways, destroyed store fronts, and sheltered alleyways. They came in all shapes and sizes, from elderly females down to smartly dressed males and even the odd young child.

Robert slowly turned through a full 360 degrees, taking in all of the zombies surrounding him. Then with a quick pull on the bolt of his M4 rifle, he prepared to get back to work.

* * *

Robert's father spent a total of two years in this mystery place called Vietnam, and in that time the only contact he and his mother had with him was via the regular letters he sent home, one every 3 months. In them, he talked at length about the conditions he and his comrades served in: the torrential rainfall, the thick jungle landscapes, the mud that went up to their waists: every dirty little detail imaginable. But most of what he read, he was too young to understand. It was only later in his life that he would come to understand his father's writings to a better extent.

He would watch the news as well: images of acres of lush green forestry erupting into flame as jet planes passed overhead (dropping something called 'napalm', he would be told later on), of helicopters landing and disgorging out U.S troops (he never saw his father among their faces, no matter how many times he checked), and views of people lying on the muddy ground, unmoving. His mother would tell him that they were playing a game of statues, though of course he would find out much later that wasn't the case.

It was 1973 when Adam Devlan finally returned home. Robert was 7 years old by then, and he thought the moment his father walked back through the doors of the family home would be just like all those other times he had returned home from a day on the job.

But it wasn't to be. The man who walked through the door wasn't the same person he had remembered his whole life. The withdrawn look on his blank face, the way he seemed to walk in as though he were going through the motions, walking straight past his son, who stood there, arms outstretched, waiting to be swept up in another massive hug from his father. He watched as he dropped his bags onto the ground with no effort at all, before moving up towards Robert's mother and giving her a kiss on the cheek. And then he moved away from his family, sitting down in his favourite chair in the front room, that old wicker thing that would creak constantly, to show that he was still in the house even if no-one else could see where he was.

Robert carefully approached his father, who just continued to sit there, rocking gently in his seat, staring at some point on the wall right in front of him.

"Dad?" he asked quietly. Adam Devlan made some sort of noise to indicate he had heard his son's question.

"Are you feeling OK?" asked the young boy. "I thought you'd be happier to be back home with me and mom."

Adam Devlan looked at his son and forced a barely-there smile. "I am son, I am. I'm just tired after the long trip home." He then reached a hand out and ruffled his son's hair playfully, and then turned away again, staring at the wall.

But his father wasn't fine. It didn't take Robert long to work it out: every night his father came back home, wearing the exact same look he had worn when he had returned home from his time away. His personality had markedly changed as well. The caring, protective father he had known, the one who used to regale him with tales of his grandfather's military exploits; was gone, replaced by an empty shell who seemed to be going through the motions. He would barely do anything with Robert anymore; he would just sit on that wicker chair and stare off into some point in the far distance. He scarcely talked to anyone, he barely ate.

"Mom, what's wrong with dad?" he would ask his mother from time to time.

"You father," she started, sighing deeply and holding his hand carefully. "When he was away, he saw some awful things. Things that no-one should ever see. So I'm sorry if he seems different. He just needs some time for himself."

"How much time?" asked Robert. "I miss my old dad."

"I miss your old dad too son…but he needs as long as it takes," replied his mother, looking past at her husband, gently rocking in his chair. "As long as it takes."

But everyone else in town was starting to pick up on the change in Adam Devlan. Countless times Robert saw his father walking up the drive towards his house, being followed by a trio of young men, all of whom he recognised, but only one of them by name: it was Sonny Hatcher, son of the town's mayor, Vincent Hatcher. They were shouting and jeering at his father, yelling words he didn't recognise.

"Goddamned baby-killer!"

"Murderer!"

"Scumbag! You don't deserve to be our sheriff, after what you've done!"

One of them suddenly threw a half-full can of beer at his father. It struck him in the back, between his shoulder blades, and the contents went all over him, soaking him through to the bone. Adam stopped in place, before slowly turning to face the three men. They all laughed out loud, as one of them stepped forward, making a vulgar hand gesture.

"Well come on then, you sick fuck!" yelled Sonny Hatcher, a sneer on his face. "Come and show us a lesson! Or are you yellow-blooded as well as a murderer?" Sonny Hatcher may have been, in the words of a few town residents, 'a reprehensible little shit', but he was the mayor's son in the end, and it meant he could practically get away with murder if he wished. Luckily, he and his friends hadn't gone to that extreme yet.

Adam Devlan continued to stare at the three men for what seemed like an age, clenching his fists and unclenching them again. And then he finally turned and walked back towards the front door of the house.

"Thought so," sneered Sonny Hatcher, before turning and walking away with his companions, all of them laughing. As the door slammed shut, Robert ran to his father, who just continued to stand there, as beer dripped from his shirt onto the wooden floor.

"Dad, are you OK?" he asked, looking up at his father. "What were those guys talking about?"

"Nothing to concern you, son," snapped Adam Devlan, stomping up the stairs and pulling off his shirt in an aggravated manner. Robert continued to stand there and stare upwards, blinking in surprise, even as his father disappeared around the corner, and he heard the bedroom door slamming shut forcefully.

* * *

Stood on another abandoned street in Raccoon Street, a lone female zombie, her white shirt and her lower jaw saturated in blood, stood in front of a white van, its front end crumpled from where it had collided with a red sedan coming the other way, 2 days beforehand. A mangled dead body hung out of the sedan's wrecked windshield, impaled upon the broken glass of the windscreen. But unlike most of the city's population, he had not returned as a flesh-eating monster: a lucky fate some would believe.

The zombie moaned weakly and looked left and right, swaying lightly on her feet. Further down the street, several more of her zombie cohorts lingered, some of them in a worse state than she was: one of them was just an upper torso missing his legs, as he dragged himself forward with his chipped and broken fingernails, trailing his intestines behind him in a crimson trail leading halfway down the street. Others were missing limbs or large portions of their guts, but didn't seem to be concerned as they shambled about in disarray.

Suddenly, there was a loud sound from somewhere down the road, and one of the zombies fell forward, half of its skull blown off. Its companions continued to stand in their spots, still lost within their own little worlds. The sound was heard again, and another zombie pitched forward, the back of its skull blown apart. As it sank to its knees, blood and brain matter dripped down the back of its jacket. The other zombies in the immediate area suddenly started to stir, swinging around to face towards the source of the sound, a potential indication of living prey. They started to shuffle in the general direction of a white convertible at the far end of the road, which had been partially crushed after being run over by an articulated truck the previous day, the same truck which was now overturned two dozen yards away.

BANG!

There was a trace of muzzle flash from within the vehicle, and a short blonde man wearing a brown jacket and jeans went spinning to the ground, as a 5.56mm round ripped straight through his disfigured face.

BANG!

A second shot, and a female in a business suit and missing one of her eyes went sprawling to the tarmac, most of her skull blown into bloody chunks. A third shot was then quickly heard, and a teenage girl wearing denim shorts and a green vest top was sent flying backwards due to the sheer force of a round striking her in the chin.

Over the next minute or so, the hidden sniper picked off the remainder of the zombies loitering in the road, picking every single one of them off with a precise headshot, as to save on precious ammunition. Soon enough, the street was quiet once more, aside from the lone female with the bloody jaw, still standing by the white van, oblivious to the fate of her fellow zombies. Slowly, the sniper traced his aim over the woman's face, and took a deep breath, just as she turned to face him, revealing her pale white eyes.

BANG!

Blood erupted from her face and she was slammed backwards against the side of the van, leaving a sticky trail of blood as she slid to the ground, and then finally slumped to the side, dead once more. An eerie silence descended once more upon the street, until there was the grunting of a lone human figure as they dragged themselves out from the crumpled wreckage of the convertible down the road. Robert Devlan surveyed his handiwork, all killed with direct headshots.

_Not bad, _he thought to himself. Normally he was used to making such kills through the scope of his beloved modified rifle, but he'd had to make do with a standard M4A1 rifle with a red dot sight this time, but still he found it fairly easy. But then again, he had to remind himself that during his Delta Force days that the enemy he was fighting weren't as slow or dumb as zombies.

He shook his head quickly, and then set off again up the street, aiming his rifle into every dark crevice he came across, checking for danger. As he passed by each zombie corpse, he looked away, trying not to focus too hard on their ruined faces. Soon enough, he reached the top of the street, and yet another junction with another choice of path to take. He glanced left and right, before his eye caught something of interest.

There was a large warehouse on the street corner diagonally opposite from where he was currently stood, the corrugated steel shutter which barred access to the loading bay left wide open. The area of ground just outside the doors, which was painted with bright yellow lines to stop anyone else from parking and blocking the shutter, was chocked full of zombie corpses and a carpet of shell casings, including a few spent magazines. Robert carefully readied his rifle and paced forward, towards the carnage, only stopping briefly when he reached the leading edge of the loading bay. He stooped down, still holding his rifle in one hand, and picked up one of the casings, turning it over in his fingers.

5.56 mm cartridges. The same ammunition used by the U.B.C.S. Tossing the spent shell aside; he stood upright and pulled back the bolt on his weapon, peering towards the open bay ahead of him. He couldn't see anything within the darkness, but there could still be someone left inside, desperate for help. Without a second thought, he stepped forward.

Inside, he stopped for a few seconds to allow his eyes to adjust to the limited light. The warehouse was stocked full of crates of fruit and other perishable goods, enormous stacks reaching the ceiling, 20 feet above his head. To his right, he saw where a forklift truck had lost control and smashed into one of the stacks, which had then proceeded to fall and crush the driver's compartment. He could still see the poor driver poking out from under the wreckage, the air crushed from his lungs when he had crashed. On the other side of the floor, he saw a few more shot-up corpses, most of them dressed in worker's overalls. Then he looked a little more, and he saw a small grey box against the wall near to him: a lighting box by the looks of things. Quickly, he crossed the floor towards it, taking a hold of the large lever on the right hand side, and pulling it down. He held his breath as he heard a low humming from somewhere above him, and then was a bright burst of light as the warehouse floor was flooded in light.

He turned and surveyed the area again. This time he could make out the little details, such as the countless bullet holes marking some of the walls and crates, and the bloody smears that also marked the ground in several places, countless footprints moving to and fro through the mess, some of which were his own, but the rest seemed to lead back towards the rear part of the floor, where he could make out a single door set within the wall. Wasting no more time, he strode over towards it, still checking behind him in case anything was trying to sneak up on him. When he reached the door, he raised his foot and planted it into the middle of the door, kicking it open and stepping through into the area beyond, sweeping his rifle both ways.

He was stood in an empty corridor now, a dead end to his right, and to his left it curved away around a corner. A few piles of cardboard boxes filled with random paperwork were littered here and there as well, and ceiling fans buzzed lazily above his head. It was silent too, aside from the casual beating of fan blades, but the walls were marked with the odd bloody handprint, he could tell. Breathing out and letting the tension leave his body a fraction, he moved forward, trying his best not to drop his focus for even a moment.

He rounded the corner, into a long stretch of corridor that was bare of any noticeable features, aside from a corpse slumped on the ground, face-first, several feet ahead of him. An M4A1 rifle lay by the body's right arm, and he recognised the olive green shirt and tan pants the figure wore: the standard uniform of the U.B.C.S. The large Umbrella logo on the back of the black tactical vest was still legible, despite the smears of blood all over the body. He looked down at the body for several seconds, before he slowly approached; keeping his weapon aimed down lest it come back from the dead and attack him-

-though there wasn't much chance of that eventuality, as Robert quickly saw that the man's head was missing completely, a considerable pool of blood having gathered underneath his severed neck.

"Holy fuck," whispered Robert, stepping backwards, covering his face in disgust. He looked down at the headless body for a while longer, noting how the blood was largely congealed, so this event had happened some time ago. Regaining his composure, Robert slowly circled the corpse, looking down at the gaping neck wound. He could see the twisted muscle and tissue inside the wound, and he could also make out the clear white of the exposed vertebra.

He crouched down to take a closer look, his boots disturbing the blood pool.

He hated to admit it, but he had seen this kind of thing before. This poor guy didn't just have his head cut off; it had been twisted clean off. And he knew of the B.O.W species that was known to perform this kind of grisly act-

Something thick and gloopy landed on his shoulder, and he quickly turned his head to see something dripping off of his upper arm. It was drool, and it stunk to high heaven. Another drop landed on him, falling from the ceiling itself, and he cast his gaze skyward as quickly as he could manage-

There was something unimaginable clinging to the ceiling, glaring at him while upside down. It lacked skin, its body surface just a carpet of sleek red muscle, its brain exposed and its hands and feet replaced by razor-sharp bony claws that erupted through the bare flesh. It lacked eyes as well, the space just below its forehead just another blank expanse of red. It was a B.O.W referred to as an 'Re3' by Umbrella researchers, but the U.B.C.S used a far simpler name for it: the 'Licker'.

Robert gased in horror and fell backwards, as the Licker continued to regard him with a malign intelligence, its mouth open, the impossibly-long tongue that gave it is namesake swaying back and forth, dripping considerable amounts of drool onto the floor below it. He knew that the tongue was also its most deadly weapon: capable of covering at least 15 feet in a single motion, and sharp enough to pierce a man's torso. He distinctly remembered the time when he witnessed Riley Peters get his torso ripped open by a single well-aimed strike from a Licker's tongue, killed instantly. And he wouldn't be sharing that fate now. He quickly raised his rifle and opened fire.

His salvo stitched across the monster's back, causing it to shudder in pain and shed blood, but it quickly reacted, detaching itself from the ceiling and dropping down expertly onto the wall to his left, using its claws to dig itself in the concrete. Then it opened its mouth and its tongue coiled out, twirling about in the air, before lashing itself forward like a whip, heading straight for his neck. Eyes wide, he barely had time to throw himself onto the ground, feeling the breeze of the razor-sharp organ pass by over his head. Falling in a heap in his comrades' blood, Robert aimed his rifle one-handed towards the Licker and pressed the trigger down.

RATATATATAT!

He unloaded the remainder of his current magazine, tearing through the creature's skull and splattering blood and brain matter all over the place. The monster lost its grip and flopped to the ground, leaving deep claw marks from where it had been perched behind. It landed hard on its back, blood still pumping out of where its head should have been. He continued to stare down at the crumpled body, before he finally had the sense of mind to push himself to his feet, out of the blood pool he had been sprawled in, the seat of his pants currently soaked through. He slowly reloaded his M4, tossing the empty magazine aside and slamming a fresh one home, pulling the bolt back.

CRASH!

He jumped as a vent cover somewhere behind him crashed to the floor, and he span around in time to see another red-skinned beast descend, landing atop of the fallen grate, poised t strike. In an instant, it reared back and launched itself towards the still-living merc, one of its arms raised back to strike. He swore he saw the light glinting off of its bony claw as it came towards his face, before he managed to raise his M4 and pulled down on the trigger. The weapon roared in his hands, tearing right through the toughened hide of the Licker. He ripped open its torso and forced it backwards. It sprawled away from him, its arms flailing around on either side of it, before it crashed into the wall and crumpled to the ground, breaking several of the bones in its torso into the bargain. It thrashed about a few times before falling still. And then there was silence once again.

Robert continued to stand in place, his finger still curled around the trigger of his assault rifle, in case another one of those ugly fuckers dared to show its face, but after at least a minute of him standing rooted to the spot, it looked as though he was safe once again. He finally lowered his rifle, breathing out in blessed relief.

_Holy shit…I should be dead by now!_

He looked down at the twitching body of the second Licker, noting how its blood continued to pour from its numerous wounds, an impossible amount spreading across the once immaculate floor, a carpet of red covering everything he could see. He tore his eyes away from the sight, looking straight ahead down the corridor, where he could see two doors ahead of him, one on the wall, and another set into the dead end of the corridor. Swallowing down hard, he started to move forward once again, giving the monster's corpse a wide berth as it continued to twitch.

He took the handle of the first door's handle in his fist and rattled it, to no avail. It was locked tight. Turning away, he approached the only other door in the passage, reaching out for the handle. He saw the door was open a slight amount, and the nauseating stench of blood, gunpowder and something that reeked of chemicals reached out into his nostrils. He hesitated slightly before reaching for the handle fully, feeling the cool sensation of the brass on his exposed fingers. He started to open the door, and the ungodly stench from the other side smacked him in the face as though someone had struck him with a wet fish.

As the door creaked open, he suddenly found his mind wandering again, back to the past…

* * *

He was 10 years old when he first witnessed his father's dark side. A few years had passed since his father had returned home from Vietnam, and the year was 1976. Despite the somewhat awkward atmosphere that had accompanied his father home, the Devlan family seemed to have settled back into its regular routine. His mother was even pregnant with another child. Within 7 months time, Robert would have a baby brother or sister. Suffice to say, the young boy was rather excited by this prospect, and he started to make plans to become the perfect big brother.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and Robert was sat outside his house, in his front yard, on the old tree stump that he liked to sit on, watching the world go by. He was holding the penknife given to him as a birthday present from his parents, and he was carving his initials into the bark, over and over again. It was a pretty destructive hobby, but as his father said, 'as long as he destroys that tree instead of the house, its fine by me'. Both his parents were inside, far as he knew. The street just outside his house was quiet, as it normally was on the weekend.

Then he heard the footsteps approaching from somewhere ahead of him, and he glanced up to see a figure walking towards him, blocking out the sun as they approached. He couldn't see their face, but he could tell it was someone wearing scruffy-looking jeans, and a plain white t-shirt, and he could pick out the confident swagger in their stride as well as they approached. Soon enough, the figure was standing right over him, and he stooped down, so he was closer to the boy's level. It was only then he could make out the confident smirk on his face, and his tanned skin tone. He realised it was one of the people who was always hurling abuse at his father.

Sonny Hatcher- the mayor's son. Despite the position his father held, Sonny's behaviour was more akin to that of a no-good thug, always causing trouble around time. Though he always used to get off scot-free, as his father would always step in. The young man tilted his head to the side before he spoke.

"Hey there little buddy, how's it going?" he asked. Robert just looked up at him, staying quiet. His father always told him never to talk to this guy or any of the other people he hung out with, because he was 'bad'.

"Hey there's no need to be scared, little guy," Sonny said, straightening up and holding his arms out either side of him. "I won't hurt you, honest." Robert still didn't say anything, just continuing to look up at the young man with fear. He quickly glanced back towards the front of his house, seeing if anyone was watching.

"Hey," said Sonny, taking a hold of Robert's arm suddenly and turning him roughly around to look at him eye to eye. The confident sneer on his face was gone now, and right now he just looked plain sinister, his brow furrowed and his dark eyes gleaming with a barely-concealed malice. "There's no need for that, I just wanted to tell you something…"

The two of them continued to look into each other's eyes, waiting for the other to break the silence. And then it came.

"…to tell you that your daddy's a cold-blooded murderer. You understand what one of those is, don't you?"

Sonny's grip was becoming almost too painful to bear, and the boy tried to struggle free, but the older boy just tightened his grip even more, causing a small cry of pain to emanate from the boy.

"Stop it, you're hurting me!" he pleaded, but Sonny ignored him.

"He went away to kill people, understand?" Sonny continued, his voice taking on an edge of glee as he talked. "He killed dozens of people, who had no way to defend themselves. Including children just like you, babies even. Horrible things that he said he went away to prevent!"

"Let me go!" protested Robert, trying to break free, but Sonny grabbed onto both his arms now, dragging him around so the two of them were face to face, tears starting to form on the boy's eyes.

"No! Cause you should know that your dear daddy's nothing but a murdering scumbag who deserves to be strung up and gutted like a fucking pig!"

"Hey!" yelled a powerful voice from behind. Sonny glanced up briefly, before the figure of Adam Devlan dressed in his sheriff's uniform stepped into view, shoving the young man forcefully in the chest, hard enough to push him off of his son and send him tumbling to the floor. As Sonny scrambled to his feet, a furious look etched on his face, Adam looked down at his son. "You OK Son?" Robert nodded as he wiped away a few stray tears.

"Robbie, go inside, now," he then ordered, face set.

The boy didn't need to be told twice, and he quickly got to his feet and made a dash for the front door, pulling open the wooden door and throwing himself inside. He choked back a sob or two, as the memory of Sonny's strong hands on his arms returned back to him. He stood in the hallway for a few seconds, sobbing and listening to the raised voices outside, before he turned and looked outside through the front window.

His dad and Sonny were engaged in a heated exchange. He crouched down and slowly pushed open the door, so he could hear the exchange a little better, the wood creaking loudly as it swung open. He peeked his head out in time to hear the end of his father's current statement.

"-say whatever you like to me, but you stay the hell away from my son!" he bellowed.

"Why?" scoffed Sonny, shaking his head. "You can't protect him 24/7! He deserves to know what his father's like, doesn't he? About what you did out there-"

"You always were a smug shit, Sonny!" yelled Adam, fists clenched. "You have no goddamned idea what I went through out there. Calling me a murderer, a baby-killer…do you believe everything you're told, or were you just dropped on your head as a baby?!"

"Hey man, I'm just telling the truth!" retorted Sonny. "You're supposed to protect and serve, and then you went off and took part in those sins committed by our own government! We've all seen what they've been saying on the news!"

"You honestly believe that crap?!" yelled Adam back, raising his voice. A small group of people were starting to gather on the opposite of the road, watching in silent concern. Their sheriff never got this worked up with anyone he had to reprimand, and now it looked as though he were ready to go off the deep end. "Least I bothered to sign up and do something for my country! And what did you do exactly? You sat on your ass and stayed here like a coward!"

"Rather a coward than a scumbag," sneered Sonny confidently.

"You…!" growled Adam, stepping forward, and Robert felt apprehension build up in his gut.

"What? You gonna arrest me, pig?" laughed Sonny. "I'll be out before noon, and you know fine well. My daddy gets very concerned about my well being, y'know."

"Oh, I'm not going to arrest you," replied Adam casually, walking forward. Then he raised his fist and rammed it into Sonny's face, full force.

The Sheriff's son gasped in shock, as he saw Sonny's head snap back, saw the bright red burst of blood erupt from his nose, and saw the faces of the assembled people turn into masks of outright shock. In all his life, Robert knew his father was a gentle man who could always handle most situations with a few well-chosen words. Never before had he seen him resort to violence against anyone, no matter how abusive they were to him. Never.

"Ah!" yelled Sonny, as he grabbed a hand to his bloody face. "You son of a bitch! You broke my damned nose!"

"I'll have broken more than that by the time I'm done with you, you little shit!" yelled Adam Devlan, stepping forward and launching a mean right hook into Sonny's face. The mayor's son yelped in pain and his head twisted to the side, more blood spurting out of the corner of his mouth. Robert felt the dread in his stomach build as the people across the street suddenly starting shouting out in protest.

"Oh Jesus, what's he doing?!"

"Adam, leave it!"

"That's the mayor's son Adam!"

But Robert's father didn't listen, as he followed through with an uppercut, knocking Sonny onto his back. The young man's face was an absolute mess now, as blood streamed from his broken nose and busted lip.

"Get off me!" yelled Sonny as he fell to the ground, raising his hands to cover his face. "Get the hell off me you son of a-"

He was silenced when he was kicked in the ribs, knocking the wind out of him and rolling him onto his back, and then the sheriff was hovering over him, his fists a blur as they came down again and again. Robert heard the crack of a fist against bone more then once, and he flinched at every cry of pain from the fallen Sonny.

"Stop it you crazy bastard!" Sonny screamed, in between punches.

"What's that?!" yelled Adam, ramming his fist into Sonny's face, another brutal crack being heard. "I can't hear over your damned whining!" he continued, his fists descending yet again. Blood was caked over his hairy knuckles and up the front of his shirt by now, but he kept going, his eyes gleaming with a manic glee.

"Stop! Stop!" wailed Sonny pathetically. The confident bravado he always carried himself with was gone now, in the face of some shocking violence by the town's sheriff. Robert drew back from where he was stood, taking his eyes off of the scene before him, but the sound of his father's fists colliding with Sonny's face could be heard, over the protests of the gathered crowd. He screwed his eyes shut, tears starting to form as he silently begged for his father to stop.

_Please dad…stop it…_

"Not so smug are you now, you little pussy!" Adam Devlan yelled, finally standing up, glaring down at the pathetic sight of Sonny Hatcher lying there in the foetal position, his once cocky face a bloody and broken mess now. The young man coughed roughly, and blood sprayed out onto the grass. The crowd had fallen silent now, as even one of Adam's fellow deputies had now appeared, trying to talk some sense into his boss.

"Boss! What the hell's gotten into you?!" he pleaded.

"I just did what was coming to him!" spat Adam, pointing a finger down at the figure huddled at his feet. "The little shit had it coming!"

"But that's the mayor's son!"

"Either way he still needed taking down a peg or two!" retorted Adam, suddenly reaching behind his back and pulling out his gun. "And maybe he needs a little more to show him what I went through exactly!" A chorus of terrified cries went up from the assembled locals, a few of them even backing away, fearing for their own safety.

"Adam, no!" cried the deputy.

"Stay out of this!" growled Adam, looking down at Sonny, who now saw the gun in the Sheriff's hand and scrambled backwards, eyes wide in fright.

"No! No!" he pleaded, his voice rising in pitch a couple octaves.

"Why?" growled Adam, grabbing Sonny by the front of his shirt and pulling him forward so they were face to face. "You go on about what I did out there? You have no fucking clue what we went through out there, being told you were fighting for a good cause!"

He finished his statement by pushing the barrel of his pistol into the middle of Sonny's forehead, and the man's eyes widened even further in terror, sweat rolling down his face.

"Please!" he shrieked.

"All that crap they forced us to do! You don't even know the half of what we had to put up with out there, waist deep in mud, covered in the blood of my friends, not knowing what lay around the next corner-"

"Please, I'm sorry!" cried Sonny Hatcher, his eyes screwed shut.

"Adam!" pleaded the nearby deputy, but Adam Devlan was too far past anyone talking him out of his actions now.

"You call me a baby-killing sack of shit, but you have no idea what really went on, do you?!" he roared, pressing the gun barrel even further into Sonny's forehead, threatening to bend his head back far enough to break his neck. "If anyone in this town is a bastard, then it's you, Sonny Hatcher! Judging me based on some crap spouted to you by the news and those damned protestors at the university!"

Young Robert was sat with his back to the door now, hands clamped over his ears, trying to shut out all of the yelling and shouting, and the pained sobs of Sonny Hatcher, but to no avail. Hot tears streaked down his face. He didn't want this. He was glad his father stopped Sonny from tormenting him, saying such cruel things to him, but he didn't want him to go this far: he was terrified that he would actually kill Sonny. Was this why his father went away to Vietnam? To kill other people?

"For God's sake Adam, stop it!" wailed an unknown female voice out of view.

_Yeah dad, stop it please…_

"No!" yelled Adam's furious voice. "Not until the little bastard knows exactly what I put up with out there! After all that shit he put me and my family through, he's not getting off lightly!"

"For Christ's sake, I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" pleaded Sonny. He sounded absolutely pathetic now.

Robert had heard enough. He pushed himself to his feet, turning and throwing the front door open as far as he could possibly manage, running out into the light. He ran up to where his father continued to tower over Sonny Hatcher, his face twisted into a furious scowl. The gathered crowd looked up, their faces set in shock when they saw Adam's son standing there.

"Dad, stop it!" the young boy pleaded.

Adam Devlan seemed to flinch in place, before he finally released his grip on Sonny Hatcher, who immediately collapsed into a quivering pile on the ground, arms raised up over his head, sobbing lightly. Robert noticed the large wet patch that had formed around the young man's crotch area. His father turned towards him, his face surprised.

"Robbie…"

"Dad, don't, please!" wailed Robert. "You hurt people when you went away, didn't you?"

His father lowered his head slightly, avoiding eye contact with his own son.

"Y-yes," he whispered. "I'm sorry son, I never wanted you to find out like this-"

"Then please stop hurting him!" said his son, tears still rolling down his face. "If you had enough of hurting people, then don't do it anymore!"

"Adam! What the hell are you doing?!" cried another voice.

All eyes turned towards the porch of the Devlan household. Margaret Devlan stood on the porch, her face set in a horrified expression, as she looked back and forth between the battered form of Sonny Hatcher, his face a bloody mess, and her husband, his standard-issue pistol still clenched in his right hand, his knuckles stained with fresh blood.

"Jesus, someone call an ambulance!" cried another voice, as one member of the crowd rushed forward, stooping down to check on Sonny, who had stopped sobbing by now, just breathing slightly. Everyone else continued to stand there warily, some of them muttering amongst themselves quietly, as Adam Devlan slowly turned, taking in their faces one by one, as the realization of what he had done slowly dawning on him. The fingers on his hand slowly unfurled, and his handgun dropped lifelessly from his grip, bouncing once on landing.

Robert looked back and forth, between his mother's horrified expression, and his father's slumped posture.

Their lives would never be the same after that day's events.

* * *

The door opened up fully and Robert steped through, sweeping his M4 through a full 180 degree angle to cover all possible directions before him. He was stood in another store room, this one about half the size of the main one he had entered through, yet half of the space was still taken up by boxes of fruit and other perishables, stacked up to the ceiling.

He shook his head, wondering how the hell he ended up reminiscing back to that awful day all those years ago. Thinking a little, he noted how the door into the storeroom had creaked loudly as he pushed through, much in the same manner as his screen door had creaked when he had peeked out to observe the altercation between Sonny Hatcher and his father.

_Funny how the smallest things can set off your memories…_

He barely talked about that day since it had originally happened, as it was the most extreme he had seen his father act in his life. Adam Devlan was always known to diffuse most situations with words instead of his fists, considering how he and his 3 deputies had to police the entire town, with the nearest back up several miles away. But to see him attack the mayor's only son so savagely was so unlike him. Maybe after being civil for so long against Sonny and his friends, he had just finally snapped. Clearly his experiences away from home had a profound affect on the town sheriff, though it would be a bit more time before Robert would find out the truth for himself.

Back in the here and now, the U.B.C.S merc scanned his gun sights across the floor quickly, noting the bloody smears that stretched from one side of the floor across to the opposite end of the floor, disappearing around a low stack of crates. He cast his eyes downwards and saw a hand reaching out from behind the stack, blood dripping off of the outstretched fingers. He stared down at it for a few seconds, before he raised his rifle up again, stepping sideways around the stack to keep the body in view. After a few long seconds, it came into view. It was yet another of his fallen comrades, lying flat on his back, his eyes left wide open, but his mouth remained curiously shut. The front of his neck had been ripped out savagely, blood staining the front of his tactical vest. A Benelli shotgun, sliced clean in two, lay a few inches away from his outstretched hands.

A few more bodies lay in the open area just past the first corpse, most of them fellow U.B.C.S mercs, now long dead by the looks of it, but a pair of Lickers lay among the dead humans as well. One of them had been riddled to death with bullets, dozens of small craters marking its sinewy arms and torso, while the second one had been killed with a point-blank headshot, most of its skull broken open like a soft-boiled egg and spilling across the floor. Robert looked down at his reflection in the pinkish-red liquid for a few seconds, before looking out across the bodies of the U.B.C.S soldiers, trying to figure out who they were. He recognised them by face, but not by name: they were members of Charlie Platoon, who had been dropped off in the same area of the city as Delta Platoon at the start of the Raccoon mission: they were meant to fan out and secure some ground in downtown Raccoon City to use as safe ground for the other U.B.C.S troops to fall back to.

But judging by the initial chatter he heard over the radio, most of them were wiped out within the first 20 minutes of them touching down. Most of the regiment had been wiped out shortly after landing, in fact. It was absolute chaos, if you listened over the open channel: he could hear experienced soldiers and squad leaders reduced to quivery, shrieking messes as zombies swarmed in on them. At the briefing, they had been assured only '50%' of the population had been exposed to the T-Virus. Though of course, Robert was inclined to disagree, when he saw the droves of zombies lining the streets as they were flown in…

He perked up when he heard the strange sound from nearby. It repeated for a few seconds, and then dropped away. He listened intently for a while, and the sound came again, low and barely audible. He turned his head, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from exactly. It came again.

"Anyone there?" he asked lightly, but then quickly wished he had hadn't said anything, cursing himself. More of those Lickers could be lurking around this place, and his crying out would have likely alerted every single one in the area. He tensed up, expecting to see a red-skinned beast come flying towards him, but nothing came, and he didn't hear the distinctive clicking of their claws coming after him. He released his tensed muscles, and he heard that sound coming again, rather than someone replying to him.

He realised then that it was laughing. There was someone still left in the room, and they were sniggering to themselves, over and over again. Robert noticed the voice seemed to be very thing, barely there at all. He stayed in place for a few more seconds, glancing about to see some bloody streaks on the floor, leading around the corner of a smaller stack of crates, some of them knocked onto their side, their contents spilling out across the floor.

He slowly approached, flexing his hands a few times as he did so, making sure he was prepared for anything that could happen. He saw the legs of another body coming into view as he slowly circled around, smeared in dried blood. He turned the corner fully, and saw the full view of the legs now, lying by themselves: the severed torso of the rest of the unfortunate victim lay several feet away, his arms still clutching onto his M4 rifle, his face set in a mask of sheer agony.

Robert gasped in terror and backed off, his eyes locked onto the grisly sight. A lake of blood pooled underneath the torso, and several strands of the poor man's intestines trailed out behind him, crossing the floor like discarded ribbon. It was another unfortunate member of Charlie Platoon, Decker his name was. He was young, barely 20 years old: far as Robert knew, the Raccoon campaign was his first mission with the U.B.C.S.

_Talk about being thrown in at the deep end…_

A second corpse lay slumped against the crates just opposite Decker's legs, his hands clutched to his stomach, where a bright crimson scar ran from one side of his ribs to the other, blood saturating his lower torso and legs from where he had bled out in seconds. An MP5 submachine gun lay a few inches away from his right hand, broken clean in half when he was attacked. Yet another Licker lay twisted in the space between the two slain Umbrella mercs, its now useless tongue trailing away from its open mouth like a dead snake. It had been shot in the back a few times, bullet wounds leading a trail up its back to its skull, where a single round to the back of its head had shattered its skull open like an egg. Chunks of brain tissue marked the ground around its body. Robert gave it a kick to the side, just to take his frustrations out, and then he looked about once again, to see yet another form sitting slumped against the far wall, in the cover of an overhanging partition of the wall just above him.

Robert tensed up again, just as the body started to laugh, the exact same sound he had heard before. He realised it was another U.B.C.S merc, most of his face obscured by shadow, revealing only the lower half of his face, covered in a fair amount of stubble. The man's clothing were filthy and ripped, his tactical vest barely hanging on by one of its straps. The man continued to laugh for several seconds, before he suddenly started to cough, a raspy, intermittent sound that continued for several seconds.

"You allright?" asked Robert softly, before the man's hand suddenly jerked up and aimed towards him, a SIG Pro still clenched between his fingers.

"Get the fuck away from me!" screamed the man. "I'll blow your head off, I swear to God!"

"Hey!" cried Robert, backing away and lowering his weapon. "I'm human!"

The mystery man continued to aim his gun for several more seconds, his arm shaking rapidly, before he finally let it fall, the steel scraping against the concrete floor.

"…oh who cares anymore?" he said softly, barely having any energy left to speak. Robert picked up the hint of a German accent in his voice. "I've only got one shot left anyways…barely had enough to kill that damned thing," he continued, indicating towards the fallen Licker just by Robert's feet and coughing again, leaning forward into the light, where Robert could see his full face now. His short hair was dark brown, his eyes a light green colouration with considerable dark bags underneath them. He looked up at Robert, and then froze as his mind realized who was standing before him.

"Devlan?" he whispered hoarsely. "Goddamn it! Didn't think you'd have made it this far!"

It was Hans Dietrich, a sergeant in Charlie Platoon, one of the more experienced members of the regiment, who once served in the German army, and came into the U.B.C.S after being approached by Umbrella some years ago. He had a reputation as a hard ass, a real sucker for discipline: but he was a good fighter and leader overall.

"Dietrich", replied Robert. "What the hell happened here?"

"This happened!" yelled the sergeant suddenly, indicating the general carnage in the room. "They honestly thought they could contain this, this outbreak?!" He scoffed loudly, and continued his rant. "We've dealt with all kinds of smaller outbreaks in the past, but this…this is unlike anything we've faced before! A full-blown city outbreak, how the hell did they expect 100 men to contain something of this magnitude?!"

Dietrich lowered his head and started to pant slowly, trying to regain his composure, before he broke out laughing again, his pearly teeth forming a stark contrast against his soot smeared face.

"Hell, I'm starting to wish I staying with the regiment then agree to this damned offer!" he then yelled, stamping his foot against the ground and waving his arm around angrily, his handgun pointing in random directions. Robert shyed away slightly, wary of anything bad happening right now. The last thing he needed right now was to accidentally be shot by one of his own unit. "They sentenced us all to death anyway!"

"You can say that again," muttered Robert quietly in agreement.

"Geez, you think?!" bellowed Dietrich, glaring hard at his fellow merc. "If that's the case, why did you agree to work for the company in the first place? Why did you, the great Robert Devlan, choose to work for those bastards?" His tone became downright aggressive by the end. Robert was silent for a few moments, staring off at some point in the distance, formulating his answer. He remembered being stuck in that damned place for years: it seemed an age ago, but in reality it had only been 3 years past.

"Because I had no choice," he said simply, still staring ahead. "It was either take the easy option out, or it was the firing squad. If you had the choice between dying and living, what would you take?" He made eye contact with Dietrich then, who only shook his head and turned away in response.

"Ah, what does it matter what I think?" he said flatly. "It doesn't matter anyway…nothing matters much now- we'll all be dead sooner or later…" He looked off to some far corner, and started to chuckle to himself again, before crying out loudly, "Fuck!"

"Look, what happened here exactly?" asked Robert, indicating the general chaos in the room. He was trying to change the subject, though there was hardly a huge amount to talk about in the current climate.

"What happened?" asked the German, "_Those _things happened!" he yelled, pointing towards the corpse of the nearest Licker. "Everyone else in Charlie platoon was killed by those fucking zombies after landing! The Captain thought it would be a good idea to camp out in those basketball courts, but they swarmed in and fucking murdered us! We couldn't do a damned thing!"

Dietrich was referring to Charlie Platoon's newly-appointed commander, Captain Mercer, who had only been appointed to the position when their previous commander met a rather sticky end during a previous mission. Mercer had no formal officer training, yet he was still appointed to that rank as there were no other personnel who fitted the bill in the rest of the platoon.

"That stupid kid…he killed us all!" continued Dietrich, the bile creeping into his voice. "So myself and these guys…we got out, we ran for it as far as we could manage…and we came here." He coughed a couple of times and swallowed quietly, before he continued his tale.

"And it worked like a charm at first…we cleared those zombies out and we could hole up in here. But then those…damned skinless fuckers came screaming out of nowhere, killed the others! I barely managed to shoot that last one to death after it sliced Willy in half!" He indicated towards the nearby Licker corpse, his arm shaking freely now. "And I could still here a few more of them crawling around out there…so I stayed here and stayed quiet, so they wouldn't find me…"

"Well don't worry," replied Robert, "I finished off the rest of them, so we should be safe now."

"You finished them off?" asked Dietrich with a laugh. "By yourself?" He laughed again, sounding a bit more unstable this time. "Shit! Then you must be some sort of bad-ass to get past them by yourself. Then again, anyone who made it this far must be a bad-ass!"

"No, just lucky," replied Robert under his breath, before he spoke up once again. "Either way, you're blessed to still be in one piece. We should get out of while we still can…before anything else comes along."

"What?!" cried Dietrich, before laughing again, sounding a lot more unhinged this time. "I'm not going anywhere!" he then added, in between fits of insane giggling, before bringing his right arm around and laying his pistol across his lap. "I'm gonna stay right here, where it's nice and safe, away from those damned things outside!"

"Stay here, and sooner or later they'll find you anyway," reasoned Robert.

"Oh don't worry, I got the solution for that," laughed Dietrich, cradling his handgun carefully in his grasp and smiling wickedly. "You remember what we all promised right at the start? The same thing we promise at the start of every single mission?"

Robert knew full well what his comrade was referring to. The U.B.C.S had seen and fought against the worst Umbrella had to offer, and they also knew of the one fate that was worse than death itself. There was that fabled 'last bullet' that every one of them carried, in a plastic waterproof bag each man kept in one of the top pockets of their tactical vest, in case any of them were to be infected with the T-Virus. Better to put oneself out of ones misery then become one of the corporation's mess ups.

"It's so sweet…I can almost taste it," the German continued, as he continued to look down at his weapon, stroking it softly.

"Dietrich…" said Robert cautiously, but his fellow merc seemed miles away, lost in his own thoughts, as he continued talking.

"Being so far away from it all…far away enough that everything else is so insignificant and meaningless…that's where I'd like to be," he said, before looking up at Robert, tears starting to form in his eyes. "I knew some good men in this unit, like brothers almost. None of them deserved to die like this, not in a place like this; miles away from their loved ones…does your family even know where you are right now?"

Robert lowered his head, avoiding the direct gaze of his comrade. "No…my family won't care anymore." He felt his eyes well up as the memory of his family members flashed through his mind.

"Shame that," sighed Dietrich, looking down at the ground, before he cleared his throat quietly and looked up again, his face set. "Well it was fun while it lasted. See you on the other side, Rob."

Then he swung his arm up and pushed his gun barrel up against the underside of his chin.

"No!" cried Robert, extending his hand out. But it wouldn't affect the outcome.

BANG!

Robert blinked in surprise as blood and brain matter splashed onto his face. Dietrich slumped to the side, the top part of his head split open by where the bullet has passed through. A considerable amount of blood and brain matter sprayed up the wall behind him, a slick pinkish-red stain that reached right up to the ceiling. Robert looked down at Dietrich's corpse with a certain amount of guilt, at the fact he was unable to prevent his comrade from taking his own life.

_Goddamn it!_

He looked up at the sickly mess on the wall, listening to the sound of liquefied brain matter dripping onto Dietrich's body. He stared at the almost hypnotising swirls of red and pink before him, starting to feel queasy, but unable to pull his eyes away. The image reminded him of that day years ago, the same day that his whole life fell apart…

* * *

It took less than a week for the Devlans' happy existence to come apart. Within 3 days of beating Sonny Hatcher to a bloody pulp, Adam stepped down as Sheriff of the town, under pressure from the mayor himself. And by the end of the week, the family had moved out of town. Beforehand, the population had been mostly on Adam's side, putting up with his unpredictable behaviour and dour personality after he had returned from Vietnam, due to the respect he had garnered during his career. But after the attack, they all became fearful of him. There was no big fanfare for his leaving either. Some people were almost glad in fact.

The Devlan family moved out to an old log cabin that had originally been built by Robert's grandfather decades before, located within the thick forest at the foot of the mountain chain several miles outside of Hope Falls. Apparently, Adam Devlan believed the only way they could move on with their lives was to move out to some place miles away from civilization; to be left alone. Adam didn't start working again, though he spent a lot of time out hunting in the woods: Robert lost track of the number of times his father returned back from one of his all-day trips, a deer slung over his shoulders. Eventually, Adam actually started selling off the meat and fur of his kills at the local town stores, to make a bit of extra money.

And then there was his new little sister: Claudia, his parents decided to name her. He remembered the first time he saw her, how tiny she was, with light blonde hair, like his mother, with dark green eyes, like his father. Since he was home schooled now, he was able to spend a lot of time with his sister, learning to take care of her, like any good brother would.

"You take care of your sister, Robbie," his mother said to him once as they watched her sleeping in her home-made cot. "She needs to grow up in a loving family…after what's happened so far."

"I will mom, don't worry," nodded the boy.

It took them all a while to settle into their new lives, but eventually they did, and it looked as though things were looking up for the Devlan family. Though there was always that dark shadow that hung over everything they did: the mystery of Adam Devlan's experiences when he left for Vietnam. Many times Robert would see his father sitting out on the front porch of the cabin, in his favourite wicker chair, staring at some point in the distance. He would carefully approach his father, looking at him from the side, seeing the forlorn, miserable look upon his face.

"Dad?" he'd ask quietly, and Adam would turn to face him suddenly, jumping in surprise.

"Hey Robbie, you gave me quite a shock there," he said, forcing a smile. "You need something?"

"I was just worried about you dad," replied Robert.

"Hey, there's no need to worry about an old timer like me," laughed his father, getting up out of his seat and ruffling his son's hair, before walking back inside the cabin. The boy followed after his father with his eyes, still showing concern on his face. Despite everything he was told, he knew his father wasn't fine.

And it all came to a head on May 13th, 1979…Robert had only turned 13 a couple of weeks before, and he and his father were home alone, while Claudia was asleep in her room. Robert's mother had gone out to get some supplies from the nearest general store, while Robert was helping his dad to tidy his hunting room, a spacious room located to the rear of the cabin, where Adam stored all of his traps, his guns, and the numerous trophies of his countless successful hunting trips in times past. He looked up at the mounted stuffed head of a great stag, its glassy eyes regarding him with little interest, its great antlers reaching up towards the ceiling.

"Hey Robbie, get a hold of these will you?" said the voice of his father suddenly, making the boy turn away from the great wall hanging, to where Adam was stood over next to one of the huge wardrobes in the corner. He was wearing his bright red hunting safety vest and his ragged pair of denim jeans, as he was set to head off on another trip once they were done here.

"Sure dad," called Robert, moving over and taking a large cardboard box from his father's hands, before moving it to the side and dropping it onto the floor next to his feet, kicking it away underneath the glass display case laid up against the far wall. He turned in time to see his father stretching up on his tiptoes to recover a small box sat atop of the wardrobe, a small box that seemed strangely familiar to him. It was only when he saw his dad flip the lid of the box open and took a quick look at a number of black and white photos inside, he realised what it was. It was his grandad's book of war memories.

"I thought you said you got rid of all that, Dad," said Robert simply, and Adam seemed to freeze up, before he nodded slowly, moving his arm to show all of the old war mementos.

"You're too good for me, son," he said finally, with a slight smile. "I'm getting too old now." In a way, he was right. His brown hair wasn't as thick as it was now, and it was starting to grey around his temples, as well as in several places on the top of his head.

"Come on dad, why did you say you got rid of that stuff?" asked the boy, his eyes pleading. Adam Devlan looked down at his son for a long time, his cheerful demeanour fading away as he absent-mindedly twirled one of the pictures about in his hand.

"You know I always loved you telling me about that stuff dad," continued Robert. "But then you stopped…right after you came back home. Did…something bad happen out there?"

"No, of course not son," smiled Adam, though his smiled seemed a little flaky this time, "I just missed you and your mother. I'd been away for so long…"

"No dad, I think you know what I mean," replied Robert. They had all skirted around this issue for far too long, seen how it had affected everything in their lives, had destroyed that idyllic bubble they all lived in…and he wasn't going to ignore it for any longer.

"All those times you came home from work, with that look on your face…as though you're not there at all. I've seen you sat in your chair all those times dad, just staring off at some point in the distance…and mom's told me that she finds you crying sometimes."

Adam seemed to sag after that last statement. There was no point in keeping it a secret anymore. He looked up and away, out of the nearby window, squinting slightly in the midday light.

"OK then son…when I went away to Vietnam, I became a soldier, just like your granddaddy did," he explained. "And what do you think we soldiers do?"

Robert didn't reply at first, his head lowered, and then he looked back up. "To protect us," he said simply.

"To kill," Adam said, as though it were painfully obvious. "I went away so I could kill other people…and what for? To fight for a good cause?" He scoffed loudly afterwards, and then made his way over towards the chair in the middle of the room, sitting himself down. Robert followed him with his eyes.

"There's no good cause when you're waist deep in blood and mud," sighed Adam, shaking his head. "My father, God rest his soul, would always tell me the same thing when I was your age. He'd say that he went out to Europe so they could fight tyranny, make sure the future generation would grow up in a peaceful world…but he also said that once you killed enough young guys with fear in their eyes, that view starts to become a little blurred."

Robert slowly made his way over towards his father, sitting himself down on the edge of the table, noting that look in his father's eyes once again.

"So…you killed people in Vietnam dad?" the boy asked quietly. "How many?"

"Hard to say exactly," replied his father flatly. "Half the time we were just firing blindly into the trees…one of those guys I killed up close, he barely looked older than you are now. But I still had to unload my weapon into his body; otherwise he would've shredded me too."

Robert lowered his gaze, the implications of what his father told him sinking in. He went away to kill people, the same thing his grandfather had done all those years ago as well. He always loved hearing the stories from his father, how Samuel Devlan was supposedly a great hero in the U.S 15th Infantry Divison, one of the few men awarded with the Congressional Medal of Honour, gifted to only the bravest soldiers known.

"I'm sorry son, I know you liked all those stories," explained Adam, "but your granddaddy always told me he didn't consider himself a hero. He saw himself as a justified murderer. He told me that medal he got meant nothing to him at the end of it all…just a few ounces of steel and ribbon."

"So is that it then?" asked Robert, looking up. A few tears were starting to form in the corners of his eyes "Is that why you were so different when you came home? Because of what you saw and did out there? And was that the same reason you attacked Sonny Hatcher?"

Adam snorted derisively. "Sonny and his friends called me a murderer, a rapist, a scumbag- every name under the sun almost, but they had no damned clue what I went through out there! None of them did!" The anger was starting to creep into his voice as he spoke. "I may be a murderer, but I'm not a rapist. And there's no way in hell I'd be considered a baby killer either!"

"And so you beat him to within an inch of his life?" asked Robert.

"If he wanted to take his frustrations out on me, he was meant to leave you out of it!" snapped Adam, his voice rising, surprising his son. Then he realised what he had just done, and he seemed to turn meek. "I'm sorry Robbie…I wanted to protect the rest of you, but I guess I went a little far that day."

"But dad, if it was that bad, why didn't you say something?" asked the boy, wanting to know the truth now, after pushing the issue this far, even though his father was looking very weary.

"Why?" asked Adam quietly, questioning himself. "You were so young Robbie. No way a boy your age would need to know about all of that crap we went through out there. Me and the other guys in my unit…"

"Dad…"

"No son, it's already too late," snapped Adam, rising to his feet and walking back towards the wardrobe. "The damage has already been done. Maybe it would have been better if I had done something before, but it won't matter now…but I guess we'll never know now, eh?"

He reached up towards the top of the wardrobe again, this time reaching right towards the far end, stretching on his tip toes, right until he grabbed a hold of something and pulled it out. It was a small book, bound in black leather, sealed shut with a clasp. He walked back towards his son again.

"What's that dad?" asked the boy.

"This, son, was your mother's idea," replied Adam, sitting down in his chair again, holding the book in his hands carefully. "She told me rather than bottling it all up, she said if I started to write my thoughts down, then that would help, somehow…to be honest I don't feel as though it did, it just reminded me even further."

He looked down for a little, before he suddenly dropped the book into the box of wartime memorabilia, and then laid the box down on the ground, sliding it towards his son's feet.

"Here son, you take it."

"Dad…are you sure?" asked Robert, looking carefully down at the box, noting the various items he would always have a look at when his father got the box out in the past. The numerous photos and papers, and even the old medal awarded to his grandfather.

"Yeah," smiled Adam. "You always liked that stuff Robbie, and it was a silly thing for me to keep it all from you, considering…" Robert started to smile again, as he looked through the box's contents, taking out the old black and white shot of his grandfather with his old unit, the one that was always his favourite. Then he looked at the black-bound book and another thought hit him.

"What about that, dad?" he asked. His father seemed to be miles away when he looked towards his son.

"Hm?" he asked, then saw what Robert was referring to, and his face seemed to darken. "Oh that? Well I won't be needing it for much longer Robbie. You should hold onto it for safe keeping."

Robert furrowed his brow, confused by his dad's statement. "Hold onto it? Can I-"

"If you want to, son," sighed Adam. "As I said, what's in there isn't very pleasant stuff. I'm not saying you have to read it though," he then said quickly, raising one of his hands up. "When you feel you're ready, you can read as much as you like." Robert continued to regard his father with an unsure gaze, until he leaned forward.

"Do you hear me Robbie?" he asked quietly. "Don't feel rushed to do anything."

"Sure dad," nodded the boy. Adam Devlan smiled suddenly and playfully ruffled his son's hair.

"Good boy," he said, standing up. "Go on; put those things in your room. I'll finish up in here."

"You sure dad?" asked Robert.

"Yeah, of course son," smiled his father, nodding. "Go on, get going." With that, the boy gathered up the box carefully in his arms and walked briskly out of the room, a slight smile on his face. Adam listened intently to his son's footsteps as they echoed away down the hallway, and then around the corner. He listened until he heard the sound of the bedroom door opening, and then he stepped forward quickly, closing the door into the Hunting Room briskly, and allowed himself to breathe out.

_Aw shit…_

His son knew now…what he had become out there in the jungles of Vietnam. Not just a killer, a monster. The boy had always seen his father as an inspiration, as a hero: and now that had all been shattered. He could see it in his son's eyes as he left the room: bitter disappointment. He had smiled, but he looked unsure as well: fearful almost, in fact. Adam Devlan sighed and turned away from the door, tears welling up in his eyes. He looked around the room, and his gaze settled upon his trusty hunting shotgun, hanging upon the wall opposite him.

Robert looked down into the box, from where the dozens of pictures and other relics from the past were laid out, the same ones he used to admire on a regular basis. Except it had been a few years since the last time, and now he was taking his time in remembering each individual item, in particular the large shot of his grandfather with the rest of his unit, a group of 4 dozen young faces in dirty fatigues, smiling broadly. Apparently, it had been taken somewhere outside of Berlin, but Robert could never recall what the name of the small town was, the one the unit had just captured hours previously. He could easily pick out his grandfather: the dark hair and smirk he wore were an exact copy of his father's own appearance.

He set the picture aside and looked down at the leather-bound book, remembering what Adam had told him previously: his darkest thoughts, supposedly written down in those pages, for the whole world to see, if they wished it. The curious part of him wanted to tear it open and have a quick look, drinking in as much as he could, but another part of him was wary of ever touching it. He started to reach one his hands out towards it.

Then he heard the sound from nearby. The very sudden, loud thump, as though something heavy had hit the ground. He jumped, swinging around to face towards his bedroom door, listening intently, but no other sound came. The house was deathly silent, save for the song of the birds outside. He swallowed slightly before he spoke out.

"Dad?" he asked. No reply came, so he called out again, in a slightly louder tone. "Dad, are you there?"

There was still nothing. Feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, he quickly turned back and shut the lid back on the old cardboard box, before lifting it off of the bed and pushing it underneath, out of view. Then he went back towards the door and carefully stepped out into the hallway. He glanced left and right, but he was completely alone. He couldn't hear anything else, not even the sound of his dad moving stuff around inside the hunting room.

He moved out into the main living area, looking over towards the passage leading up to the hunting room. The door was shut tight, and he didn't remember hearing it close behind him. He stood there for a while, staring at the closed door. He could feel the hairs on his neck starting to stand erect once more as he stood in silence, breathing quietly to himself.

"Dad…?" he asked again, a bit louder. No reply greeted him. He continued to stand there for a few moments, his mind trying to process what could have happened. But no logical solution greeted him: if his dad had left the home without saying goodbye, Robert would have heard him, since the front door was past his bedroom door. And there was no back door to the cabin either, so there was no other way to get out.

He wondered if his dad had fallen and hurt himself, hence the loud noise. Maybe he had just bruised himself, or perhaps he had broken something, and urgent help was needed-

Then the boy sniffed the air, and the familiar aroma of gunpowder crept into his nostrils. He'd become used to it after a few times his father had returned from a hunting trip, and he cleaned down the 12-gauge shotgun normally used to bag a big stag or even a bear one time. The smell of fresh smoke and cordite would always stick to his hair and clothes afterwards, prompting his mother to play hell with him. But this time, he could detect it even before his father had taken the weapon out of the house, and he felt his stomach start to tie itself in knots.

"Dad?" he called again, this time his voice starting to waver a little. "Are you there?" A dread silence greeted him. Slowly, he reached out and took the doorknob for the hunting room in his hand. He held that position for a few seconds, holding his breath in, and then twisted the knob, hearing the door's bolt clicking open. He waited for a little longer, and then he pushed it, the door creaking open slightly. The smell of gunpowder became more prevalent now, practically slapping him in the face, but this time it was tinged with something else, something that he couldn't place, and it was starting to freak him out even more.

He pushed the door open further and peeked inside. The room was largely the same a she had left it, except now he could hear something wet dripping onto the floor, at regular intervals.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

He swallowed again and considered turning back, as the overpowering stench threatened to nearly knock him off of his feet now.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

He pushed through into the room fully, resisting the overpowering aroma.

"Dad…?"

_Drip. Drip._

The first thing he saw was the massive red and pinkish stain splattered up the far wall, up to the ceiling itself, and several feet wide as well. The liquid was smeared all over the mounted stag head as well, small droplets of it dripping from the end of the mounting's great antlers, creating a stippling pattern across the wooden floor. The awful smell became more prevalent than ever, and then he cast his eyes downward, catching sight of the figure slumped in the seat just in front of him.

He stifled a scream, stepping away in utter shock, covering his mouth into the bargain.

_Drip. Drip._

Adam Devlan was sat in the seat, leaning as far back as was possible, his head far back, in danger of being snapped off of his shoulders. The underside of his chin was gone now, replaced by a gaping, bloody hole, a fair amount of blood dripping down the front of his hunting jacket and jeans, a bright crimson trail tracing down onto his seat, dripping off the edge onto the wood-panelled floor, making that noticeable _drip _sound he could hear before. He stared down at the widening puddle of red at his father's feet. It was already several inches wide, and growing in size constantly. Across his father's lap, still clutched in his hands, was his shotgun, a trace amount of smoke trailing up from the barrel towards the roof. The front half of the weapon was smeared in recent gore and chunks of pink tissue.

_Oh God…_

The boy continued to stand there, staring at his father's corpse.

"Dad…?" he whispered, his voice barely a hoarse whisper, slashed with horror. He continued to stand there, rooted to the spot, his eyes unable to tear themselves away from the horrific scene before him. He felt the rancid taste of bile on the back of his tongue, but somehow he forced himself to keep it down. Then he changed his viewpoint, and stared up at the huge bloody smear against the far wall: anything to take his eyes off of the image of his father's body just lying there immobile.

He looked hard at the smear, his mind becoming lost in the swirling patterns of red and pink, even starting to note the small clumps of pink tissue that clung to the wall in various places. He focused on those clumps, as disgusting as it seemed, desperate not to focus on the figure before him. His stomach contracted as the combined stench of gunpowder and blood flooded into his nostrils once more, and the bile touched his tongue once more. He swallowed hard again, and screwed his eyes shut, trying to force the image out of his mind, away from him.

But he remained rooted to the spot. And he remained there, until his mother returned home 10 minutes later.

* * *

Robert Devlan had quickly left the empty warehouse behind and continued on his way again, moving as fast as his brisk strides would take him. Cold beats of sweat still marked his brow, even though he had left the gruesome behind some 10 minutes ago. He just couldn't get that damned sight out of his head: that massive pink and red smear halfway up the wall, left when Dietrich had blown his own brains out rather than try and escape with Robert. The same one he had seen when he walked into that damned hunting room, all those years ago.

It was unbelievable. He knew his dad had been feeling less than 100% since he had returned home from Vietnam, but to blow his own brains out with his children nearby? It was unheard of. He remembered the sound his mother made when she returned home: that dreadful shriek that finally woke Claudia up from her sleep, the sound which reminded him of a banshee's wail. She had been in an absolute state by the time the police had come, closing the room off to everyone's view. His mind was hugely relieved, by the fact he would hopefully never have to see inside that damned room. But the macabre image of the mounted deer head, dripping with blood and liquefied brain matter, would remain burned in the back of his mind for years to come.

It felt so strange with only the three of them in the house. Obviously, they moved out of that cabin, back down to some small town near to Hope Falls, where they would spend the next major part of their lives, but with only 3 of them in the household, it felt so unusual: 3 seemed such an odd number to become accustomed to. His mother retreated into a near-comatose state for the next few years: she would just sit there and stare at some point in the near distance, and wouldn't reply to any question directed at her, not even from her own son. As such, Robert was left to raise his own sister and work as well, to support his family any way he could. In a way, he was forced to grow up very quickly. He was told by an old family friend that since he was the 'man of the house' now, it was up to him to look out for everyone else. Though he quickly came to hate it, especially as his mother barely seemed to take any notice of what was going on around her-

A soft moan bought him back to the current world, and he quickly started, before glancing to and fro quickly, tightening his hold upon his weapon. He heard the moan again, and turned his head to the left, where the side of the street was blocked off by a tall steel fence. On the opposite side, a few zombies wandered to and fro, taking no interest in him. Though a middle-aged man wearing a blue sweater was right at the fence, reaching through with blood-caked arms, moaning pathetically. Robert regarded the man for several seconds, then seeing that he was no immediate threat, moved on, leaving it behind.

He continued up the street until he came to an intersection, and he stopped, glancing around at the street sign nearby, which had partly toppled over after a red sports car had veered off of the road and smashed into it. He looked upwards, noting he was on the junction for 'Ema Street' and 'Bond Street'. His mind went back to the tactical maps of Raccoon City that he reviewed before the mission: and these streets were near to the Northern part of the city, near to the St Michael's Clock Tower, the specified extraction point for the mission. Though now he wondered if there was even anyone left that would be in a position to ring the bells and summon the helicopter-

Then he heard the sound clearly, over the constant moaning, over the crackling of near flames: the long droning sound of clock tower bells ringing. He stood in place, frozen in surprise.

_The bells are ringing! Who the hell managed to-?_

But right now, he didn't care who had managed to survive for this long and ring the bells. All that mattered was that they had managed to do the deed and that meant that the extraction chopper, waiting in the suburbs, wouldn't be very far away. Feeling a burst of hope sprout within his chest, he started to move off at a brisk sprint, heading straight down the street, towards the clock tower.

Within a few minutes, he was just down the street from the imposing spectacle of St Michael's clock tower. The actual tower itself was still in one piece, but the street directly outside was a different matter. At the far end of the road, it looked as though a tram car had come off of the rails and smashed front-first through the brick wall surrounding the building's front courtyard, an intense blaze starting to surround the scene. The main front doors were a mess as well, crumpled out of their normal position thanks to the sheer impact from before. It didn't look as though he'd be able to get through the doors, but there had to be some other way through. At both ends of the street, a few zombies loitered, but they hadn't noticed him yet.

He looked up at the clock face, its illumination cutting through the relative darkness and light wispy cloud that drifted before it. The bells continued to ring as he stood there, staring up at it, as though transfixed by this imposing city landmark-

Then he heard the beating of helicopter blades, and he looked around and up, just as he felt a strong downwind start to ruffle his clothing. He turned around and looked up, just as the massive grey shape of an Umbrella transport helicopter appeared overhead, the distinct red and white octagonal emblem emblazoned upon the side. A long spotlight shone down into the courtyard of the clock tower as the flying vehicle circled around, so it was hovering just over the tower grounds. He felt an immense surge of relief course through his body.

_Thank god…maybe there's some hope left after all…_

He started to move again, knowing he had to get in there somehow, lest the chopper take off and leave him there to fend for himself. He glanced back up again, as the chopper started to slowly rotate, trying to find some clear space for it to put down. So he had a bit of time in that respect at least.

He stopped in place when he heard a new sound, even above the roaring of the rotor blades. A low thump, quickly followed by a high-pitched whistle, a sound that he had become familiar with during his time in the Delta Force, years previously. And his blood ran cold, wishing that he had misheard it entirely.

He looked up, in time to see a dart-like object, a trail of flame blazing behind it, from one of the low rooftops surrounding the courtyard, screaming up towards the tail end of the chopper.

_NO!_

The rocket impacted at the point where the helicopter's tail met its main body, a considerable fireball of flame tearing straight through the thick steel plating. The tail started to break away, the rest of the chopper rocking forward from the sudden impact strike, heading straight towards the tower itself. There were a couple of gut-wrenching seconds as the pilot tried to regain control of the chopper, before it plunged cockpit-first into the tower face.

There was another immense explosion, which swallowed up the front half of the chopper and blew away one side of the tower in a hail of bricks, raining down into the courtyard below. Then the chopper twisted and fell, consumed in flames, like a blazing comet that lit up the night. Robert watched it fall, as if in slow-motion, its rotor blades still turning even as fire spread across its entire surface. The blades sliced through the brick of the lower half of the tower, before the falling wreckage finally disappeared from view. Then a split-second later, he heard it hit the ground, a geyser of flame and shards of twisted metal flew up into the air, into his sight. He watched as the shards seemed to dance on the wind for a split second, before falling again, out of his view once more.

He continued to just stand there, staring up at the clock tower, part of its upper structure torn away from where the chopper had impacted against it. A few loose bricks continued to fall from the side of the clock face. The clock face was now dark once more, the impact clearly having knocked out its lighting system. The lower part of the still-intact tower glowed red, licked by the flames below. He could still hear the crackling of the new inferno now, flames just barely visible over the top of the courtyard walls.

He stood there alone, a dozen thoughts rushing through his head. He had come this far, so damned far, only for the only route of passage out of this city to be shot down. By who, he didn't know. And it didn't matter right now.

"FUCK!" he screamed, tearing the assault rifle off of his shoulders and tossing it forcefully to the ground as hard as he could manage, to burn off a little of his pent-up anger. The sudden shock of the weapon clattering to the cobbled street caused the weapon to discharge.

A single shot rang out, the bullet whizzing away down the street, but Robert paid it no attention, even as it smacked against the ground, before ricocheting up into the air, and embedding itself into the fleshy calf of a man in a business suit. The figure shuddered at the impact and sank slightly down, before he turned in the direction the shot had come from, moaning weakly.

Robert just stared at the ground in front of him, breathing harshly to himself, his fists clenched as tight as he could manage, his fingernails threatening to slice into his flesh, but he couldn't care less right about now. It was gone: his one chance of getting out of this damned place, after he had come this far and been through so much crap. He had been denied the last chance of ever getting out of there.

He started to laugh to himself, a low snigger that steadily built up to a louder cackle, as he got back to his feet and started to walk about, kicking out at a fallen trash can, causing it to clatter away down the street, its noise even heard above the crackling of the flames near to him. He kicked the can again, this time hard enough to dent its surface, and let off another roar, letting the anger pour out of him.

And then he stopped. Silence, aside from the crackling flames and the soft moans of approaching undead, returned. Robert lowered his head again, breathing deeply, flexing his hands to try and calm himself once more. Though with what had just transpired, he knew his choices were very limited now. Sighing, he turned back and slowly stooped down, retrieving his M4A1, and checking it over to make sure it would still work. Despite the few scratches it had received from him throwing it to the floor, it was otherwise still functional.

He slowly turned towards the nearest group of zombies, currently approaching him from where the stray bullet had fired to. Leading the group was a business man with some of his intestines hanging out, one of his arms barely hanging on by a few shredded strips of skin and flesh. Robert looked out among their pallid faces and shook his head slightly. Though he had a pretty good idea what he wanted to do now, right now he just wanted to let off some more steam, by killing some more damned zombies.

He started to walk towards the approaching monsters, raising the rifle to eye level.

* * *

Robert Devlan pushed through the front door of the respectacle house his family had lived in for the last few years, letting the screen door swing shut behind him. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking at himself in the nearby mirror. He looked exhausted, his face pale and unshaven, large bags having formed underneath his eyes. The product of another long day at work, providing for his mother and little sister.

"Mom, I'm home," he called down the hallway, but he heard no reply. Shaking his head, he started to walk down the hall, wondering if his mother had managed to start making the dinner. She had started going back to work as well, within the last six months, so it looked as though things were finally starting to pick up for them, she was definitely getting better. He'd barely made it a few feet when a small blonde girl suddenly appeared from around the doorway and slammed into his legs.

"Oh!" he cried, before he started to laugh. "Hey Claudia, you're getting strong now!" he then said, before he reached down and lifted the young blonde girl up so they were eye to eye. "Did you miss your big brother that much, eh?"

"Sure did Robbie," beamed his little sister in response. She'd grown a hell of a lot recently, but he wasn't surprised. Considering how quickly he had been forced to grow up following the…unpleasantness of before, he wasn't surprised that she had followed suit. Her blonde hair was growing out now, similar to his mother, but her green eyes were from their father, and he couldn't help but remember him every time he looked at her. He managed to suppress that uncomfortable feeling though as he smiled again at his little sister.

"You enjoy school today?" he asked, setting her down on the ground and kneeling down slightly so they were face-to-face again. She'd only started at school recently, having been home schooled for the last few years what with his father's death, but when his mother returned to work the year before, she had started to attend the local school, and she was loving it, being among other children rather than staying with her immediate family.

"Yeah!" she said excitedly. "You know I always do."

"That's my girl," he said, smiling again. Whenever he saw her happy, he couldn't help but feel better himself, as when he first heard she was to be born, he'd made a promise to his parents that he would be the best big brother in the world. In a way, he could see he had achieved that. "Is mom home yet?"

"Yes, she got back just now," Claudia nodded. "She's just getting dinner ready."

Robert sniffed the air, and the smell of cooked chicken wafted into his nostrils. Almost immediately his mouth started to water. After a long day at work, a nice meal made it all seem worthwhile. "Ah, that's the ticket!" he said loudly, before looking down at his little sister again. "Go, you go get yourself ready to eat, OK?" She only nodded briskly, and then went off again, disappearing up stairs. Robert heard the _clump clump _of her feet going up the stairs. After he heard her bedroom door open and close, he moved through into the kitchen.

"Hey mom, I'm home," he said, passing into the kitchen, where his mother worked at the stove, her back turned to him. The intoxicating smell of food practically slapped him in the face now, as his mother turned around to face him, smiling.

"Hey there Robbie, how was your day today?" she asked, before stepping forward to give him a caring hug, which he returned carefully before they released, allowing him a good look at her face. She was looking a lot more healthy now, her skin a nice tone, rather than the somewhat pale and drawn appearance she had adopted after her husband's suicide. It was only within the last year that she had finally managed to come out of her protective coma: that's what her doctor had described it as; a defence mechanism to cope with a world without her beloved husband. By actually learning to speak to people again, and by returning to the process of a normal life, she had made a massive step towards getting through the grief process.

"Oh, the usual," he replied. "Not that much exiting now. Maybe its time I moved on to something else?"

"Is that so?" she asked. "What did you have in mind, exactly?"

"Who knows?" he replied, rubbing his face tiredly. "Something that doesn't involve dealing with the idiots of this world, perhaps. Something more exciting…I'd like to get out there and see the world, not be sat in some room watching the world go by outside."

"Well that sounds like a great idea Robbie," his mother agreed. "But you finished school early, and you never went on to college, after everything that happened…I'm sorry but it looks as though you have little choice right now."

"Shame," sighed Robert, lowering his head and turning away, his eye catching the framed picture propped up on the nearby counter. It had been taken outside that old log cabin, years previous, back when they were all a happy family: mother and father stood shoulder-to-shoulder, her holding onto the newborn baby Claudia, and him with one of his arms around the shoulder of his son, all of them smiling broadly, blissfully unaware of the terrible tragedy that would soon befall them all. Robert felt his heart sink, as the dark memories came flooding back.

"Don't worry, I miss him too, Robbie," his mother said suddenly, getting his attention. "It's been a very hard time for all of us, hasn't it?" He looked at her again, and he could see the sorrow starting to build up in her eyes, something long forgotten that had just been brought back from the darkness. But as quickly as he saw it coming, it had faded away once more, as she forced a slight smile. "But let's not get too caught up on the past, shall we? Go on, get yourself changed for dinner."

"Of course mom," he replied, turning to leave the kitchen, but he offered one last glance towards the old family picture on the side. He sighed once more, before he left the room.

Up in his room, he sat himself on the edge of his bed, already changed, but clutching an object in his hands, just staring down at the front of it. A book, bound in black leather, covered with a light layer of dust. His dad's book, the same one given to him those years ago, on that fateful day.

He had totally forgotten about it, in the time after the incident: stored away, along with the rest of the relics from his grandfather's time as a soldier, in that anonymous cardboard box, with the rest of his stuff. He had chanced upon it totally by blink luck the day beforehand: while he was tidying his room up, he had accidentally knocked into his wardrobe, and something heavy fell off the top and landed on his head. It didn't take that long for him to see that the numerous old pictures and letters strewn all across his floor were all very familiar-looking to him, a bit too familiar to be exact. As he started to gather them back into the box, he finally saw that unmistakable book lying out on the ground, and he felt those dread feelings starting to creep back into his gut.

That had been a couple of days ago, and he still hadn't managed to pluck up the will to open it up and read the contents for the first time. His late father's words continued to sound in his mind, about telling him to only read it once he felt that he was ready to do so. But it had been 5 years since he had originally been told that, and he was starting to wonder if it were time he stopped getting caught up on things that had happened in the past.

He undid the front clasp of the book, letting it hand off to the side, and he continued to stare down at the book's cover for several seconds, bracing himself for whatever he would read. He started a mental countdown from 3 in his head, and then once it was done to zero he opened the front cover.

The first page was just blank. He looked at it intently for a few seconds, allowing himself to breath. From nearby, he could hear the sound of his little sister humming some random tune to herself in her room down the hall, and below him he could hear the clattering of pots and pans in the kitchen.

_A little anti-climatic…_

Then he thought to turn over the first page, and he started to see the book's contents. The first page was covered with a faded photograph showing a couple dozen young men posing in a large group shot, in front of what looked like a sweltering jungle. All of them were dressed in dirty white vests and dark green camo pants: a few of them even wore helmets in the same colouration. Most of them were smiling, bright white teeth against the relative dirt smeared across their faces. He traced a finger across the picture until he settled upon a familiar-looking figure stood in the rear row, smiling awkwardly.

His dad. That's when he realised that this was most likely his father's unit when he was serving away in Vietnam. He moved his gaze downwards, and saw the small statement scrawled on the bottom corner of the picture-

_Here's something to remember the good times by! From all the bozos in the 12__th__ Platoon._

Robert smiled a little at the statement, before he turned the page over, and started to see the precise handwriting, in black ink, that decorated nearly every line of the paper, his dad's handwriting. He turned over several pages, seeing that practically all of them were covered in writing, though there were a few faded photos as well, and other sheets of paper, stuck into the book freely, again written in his dad's handwriting. Deciding that it was best to start from the beginning, he flicked back to the first page, and started to read silently.

_I thought that I would forget those days, but even all these years later, the memories continue to plague me, visions of blood and death, seeing people die before my very eyes, and seeing the true depravity that the human race can muster. We were told that we went away to fight for a good cause, to prevent the scourge of communism from spreading across the world. __But trust me, once you've gunned down a few dozen men who look barely old enough to be out of school, that view starts to get very dim…_

Robert felt his expression darken as he read on. Despite everything he had assumed ever since that day his father blew his brains out, reading those words started to bring the truth into perspective a little bit more. And he continued to read further down the page, those feelings only started to grow stronger, his eyes and mind never fast enough to absorb all of the information before him. Soon he was flipping the page, and read down the next passage.

_I had that nightmare again tonight. It was the third day I had been in the jungle, and our unit was traipsing down through waist-high swamp water__. Billy was leading the way, as he always did, his weapon raised. I can still hear the harsh breathing of him, just in front of me, even as he triggered a Vietcong booby trap. A ramshackle wooden frame, its front marked with incredibly sharp stakes, swung out from behind a bush and impaled him through the chest: dead in a heartbeat. I still remember the warm sensation of his blood splashing onto my face, watching the patterns swirl through the dirty swamp water, even as the enemy then opened fire from all around us. I saw one of them come at me from the left, and I swung around to face him, pressing down the trigger-_

"Robert!" yelled a voice from downstairs, and he nearly jumped out of his skin, the book tumbling from his grasp onto the floor, its pages splayed wide open. He glanced towards the closed door, even as he heard his mother's voice come through again. "Dinner's ready!"

He sat there a few seconds in silence, before he was spurred into action once more, scooping it off of the ground, snapping it shut and stuffing it quickly inside that old box, and quickly kicking it underneath his bed, pulling the covering sheet down to obscure it. Then he was on his feet and heading towards the door, calling out.

"Coming mom!"

For the next two weeks, it was always the same. Dashing up to his room every spare chance he could, flicking through that black book of dark secrets and tortured memories, all the time his mind starting to realise the true nature of what Adam Devlan had gone through out there. Practically every page had some new horror depicted.

_We all went from being young and eager to be out there, to dreading every step outside of home camp. The Vietcong may have been technologically inexperienced compared to ourselves, but they knew the jungle like the back of their hands, knew all of the good ambush techniques. It didn't take long for the fifty guys I originally shipped out with get whittled down to just two dozen…_

…_t__here was another ambush that day, when we were crossing some paddy fields where they were growing rice. The workers barely batted an eyelid as we passed by, and there was good reason why: they were Vietcong in disguise, men and women both. They just pulled their weapons out of the water and opened fire, point-blank. I remember throwing myself down in the water face-first as bullets whistled overhead. I got up and pulled the trigger, but my gun jammed, yet again. Then one of them was standing over me, yelling and preparing to fire. I had no choice left, so I did what I could think of: I tackled into him, wrestling him to the ground and strangled him to death with my bare hands: it was only afterwards that I saw he was just a kid, barely 18. Why he was out here fighting grown men was anyone's guess._

_But this is my most common nightmare I have. More than once I've come to and realised my hands are wrapped around my wife's throat. The terrified look in her eyes is almost exactly the same as that young man's face when he went under…_

"Holy shit," muttered Robert to himself after reading that part. The thought of his dad taking his pent-up rage out on his own family was shocking, and it explained a hell of a lot; such as why Adam came home most days in a irritated mood. Eager to understand further, he continued to read on.

…_we found another abandoned village today. In its centre, there was a ramshackle wooden scaffold, looking like a medieval gallows. And hanging from the top pole were a few GI's…or what was left of them. They were caked in blood, some of them missing their legs and lower torsos, their intestines spooling out like discarded spaghetti. And the smell was ungodly: at least three of us lost our lunch that time, even Harker, who was meant to be the hardest of us all…_

Robert read and re-read some entries nearly a dozen times, the sheer magnitude of what his father had witnessed sinking further and further into his psyche. He had only been a young boy when his father went away, assuming he was just going away to protect people, to protect his own family. But no: as Adam had told him bluntly those years ago, he went away to kill other people. Some of the entries even made Robert feel sick to the pit of his stomach, but he carried on regardless: determined to work out what it was that drove his father to take his own life. Robert started to hate himself for having such an innocent, naieve view of the world at that time. He knew practically nothing of what life was like outside his little town.

He found a few more photos inside his dad's journal: one of them showed a scene outside some anonymous, ramshackle building, a pair of American GI's standing on either side of a wooden bench, holding their M16 rifles, their uniforms plastered in blood. One of them was even smiling broadly. On the bench, the body of a man in local clothing could be see, sprawled back against the wall of the building. His face was practically gone, just a bloody mess thanks to a point-blank gunshot: Robert couldn't tell whether he was meant to be an enemy soldier or just a civilian. In the near foreground stood Adam Devlan. His face looked at the camera, and he was looking father pale and withdrawn, almost sick even, as though he would rather be anywhere else than there.

"Oh dad," Robert sighed to himself, turning the page once again, finding yet another entry.

_I remembered Harker today, the poor bastard. Once night he just snapped and walked out of camp. Myself and a few others went after him, and we managed to track him to a small village we had passed through__ the day previous. And Harker…he had murdered nearly the entire village, ranting that they were the enemy. And a few of the women, he had even…_

Robert felt himself balk a little at the next line, and he had to take a few seconds to recompose himself before continuing.

_When we called out to him, he just laughed at us. But he didn't sound normal: he sounded __insane, completely gone. And then he opened fire on us, screaming and whooping as though it were all a game to him. Hodges fell instantly, his gut ripped into. I saw him lying there, screaming his head off as his blood bubbled out of his body, before Harker shot his face off. He turned to face me, and we both pulled down on the trigger: and both our guns jammed at the exact same moment. It seems God has a sense of humour._

_Just before he was shot dead by the private coming up behind us, I saw that look in his eyes. The man I had known for nearly a year was gone, and his empty shell had been filled with something evil and murderous. That look still remained, even as he fell into the mud, his chest blown apart. The whole incident unnerved me, even now.I wonder quite a lot if I'm going to end up like him, gunning dowm innocents like they were just pests. Some days I feel as though I'm doing fine, but other days I can feel it building up in the back of my mind: that black mix of anger and sorrow, being unleashed on those around me._

_I've already felt it a few times before, niggling at the back of my skull, as those tiny-brained jerks followed me around town, jeering and yelling at me. Calling me every name under the sun: rapist, murderer, baby killer. It sickens me to think they tar us all with the same brush, after the atrocities only a few of us committed out there. But I suppose after everything that's been said in the media, I'm not surprised some people treat me as such. I always though there was a black and white way about things, but now I know there's a grey area in between those two…and that's the area we occupied when we went out there. _

_Sometimes I find myself wanting to just beat their heads into a bloody pulp, or even push my gun into their mouths and pull the trigger, spread their brains across the pavement. But I can't. I survived out there for a year, and I'm not about to let all of that crap turn me into a monster back home, not in front of my family and loved ones. _

Robert found that entry the most revealing on so far, and he read it and re-read it countless times. Adam Devlan clearly started to question that after watching one of his comrades snap and murder an innocent village, he wondered if he would have a similar 'breakdown' and turn on those he cared about, but he was determined not to go down that route, to be stronger than they were. Though as Robert found out as he reached the final entries in the journal, he came dangerously close to losing it all.

_I attacked the mayor's son today; beat him to within a inch of his life. He was always so cocky and confident, due to who his dad was__: but once I was finished with him, he was nothing but a blubbering wreck, begging for me to spare him. But after so long ignoring his taunts and jeers, not rising to the bait, I just couldn't stand it anymore: I lost it, just like Harker had done those years ago. If my dear Robbie hadn't have interrupted…God knows what I would have done. I could have killed him, in front of all those people. I would have been no better than Harker if I had done. Half the town's already calling for me to step down, and since I beat up the mayor's son, I guess my career's already dead in the water…_

In his spare time, Robert found himself in the local library, scanning the newspaper articles for any headlines and articles relating to the Vietnam War, and he soon found he had an abundance of information to give him a better idea of what Adam had gone through, a more rounded picture than those countless journal entries could give him. Apparently this conflict had been going on for a while even before the U.S entered, believing they were doing so to prevent the spread of communism throughout the world, but as time went by the public started to question the real reason for U.S deployment there: accusations of Imperialism were common, and the belief that the country should be left to deal with its own issues without outside intervention. And the countless news footage showing the death and horror out in the jungles only served to convince the people that the war was a mistake. It even got to the point where returning soldiers were branded murderers and worse: the very same thing that had happened to his own father. Robert had been told himself that Sonny Hatcher and his friends had joined in with a few of the student-lead protests against the war, hence the vitriol they showed towards their sheriff.

He could understand his father's frustrations with everything, yet lashing out and beating Sonny Hatcher to a pulp didn't really help matters much. He wondered how often the scenes had been repeated, across the rest of the country, as the veterans returned home, try to adapt back to normal civilian life. Apparently, Adam had been doing some research of his own to find what happened to his old comrades.

_I made a few phone calls today, tried to track Gabe down. He was always my closest friend, Gabe: we looked out for one another quite a bit. __He saved me a couple of times, especially that time we got cut off from the rest of the unit and ran smack bang into that Vietcong patrol. After I took a round to the side, he stood over me and fought them off until the others arrived. I owe him my life._

_But it's a shame he's no longer with us. I heard after he went home, he was becoming increasingly withdrawn from the rest of his family and friends. Then one day 3 months ago, a biker gang came into his local watering hole, started causing trouble for no reason. Then Gabe flipped out, pulled out his old combat knife and stabbed 3 of them to death. He was given life in jail, and 3 weeks later, he stabbed himself in the neck with a soap spoon in his cell. He bled out before the CO's were able to get him medical help. _

_I was stunned. Gabe always seemed immortal to us- we thought he would live forever. But I guess even that was a lie we focused on to stay alive in that damned place. Far as I know, the rest of our old unit either returned to menial jobs, or some of them were even admitted into mental hospitals after suffering an acute mental breakdown. Makes me wonder when my turn will be coming…_

The last few entries in the journal proved to be some of the darkest Robert had seen, and he realised they were starting to come up to the date Adam had killed himself- the inevitability of that event hung over the boy as he continued to read on. He had made it this far through that volume, and he was determined to see it all the way through to the end. In the end, Robert came to the very final entry in the journal: dated just a week before that hideous day.

_I can't keep this charade up anymore._

_Trying to go on with my life, providing for my family, taking care of them the best I can: I can't keep the loving family man personality up all the time. And Robert's old enough to start figuring things out for himself now; he's starting to notice my melancholy moods. I smile and tell him everything's fine, but it's not. How the hell can I be fine, after what I went through? All the shit we were subjected to? _

_Margaret thought she could help me if I talked about my sins; wrote them down. But reading back through these pages, I'm just reminded of__ all the horrors I've kept pent-up all that time, and all of the memories come rushing back to me. Sonny Hatcher was right about one thing: I am a murderer. I lost track of how many people I killed out there, fighting for a good cause. But now I wonder if that's why I really did go out there, or if there was something else that made me sign up?_

_And did my dad feel the same way? Hailed as a hero by so many of his peers, only to feel as though he was a killer of man, like all the others who signed up during that time? I lost count of the number of times I saw him in that dour state, staring off into the distance: just like I have so many times now. Looks as though I'm destined to go the same way as he did: with my brains painted all over the ceiling. I'll never forget finding him like that: sat back in his hut, his brain matter sprayed up the ceiling._

_But either way, none of it matters now. It never mattered much for the last 9 years of my life. Soon enough I won't be a burden for my family much longer: they deserve to live their lives, and not have me hold them back in any way. My beautiful Claudia…I know she'll grow up to be a confident woman, just like her mother. And Robbie- you'll take good care of my girls, just like I took care of you and your mom. She always said you took after me more than her. _

_I can hardly wait…_

Robert had to re-read that last entry several times to realise it was effectively his father's suicide note: after so many years of struggling to keep himself going, he had reached the end of his tether: and he'd also made his mind up about blowing his brains out even before he had confronted him in the hunting room: just like his grandfather had done, even though Robert had always been told that his granddad died of natural causes: clearly, it looked as though history had repeated itself with Adam's fate. The boy even started to wonder if he had been a catalyst in his father's death: if he hadn't said anything to him on that day, forced him to relive those memories-

But he tried not to let himself get bogged down by those kinds of dark thoughts. Rather, he felt some kind of desire growing within him, a desire to prove himself, through whatever means he could. His father and grandfather had been maimed by war, and he was determined not to follow in their stead. By the time he had turned 20, he had made his decision. He would become a soldier, just like his grandfather and father before him. They may have both ended their lives in a state of depression, but he was determined not to go the same way.

Needless to say, his mother wasn't too pleased when he told her the news.

"You what?!" she shrieked, as she stood in their front room. He had told her the news the second she had gotten back from work that day, and as far as he knew Claudia was upstairs in her room, and had probably heard her mother's shout.

"I said…I want to be a soldier mom," Robert said calmly. "Just like dad and grandpa were."

"You'll do no such thing!" was her response, the anger in her voice apparent.

"Mom-"

"No, I'll hear nothing of it!" she continued, taking him by surprise. She turned away and entered the kitchen, leaving her son standing there in surprise. He heard a few cupboards open and slam shut, and he carefully followed after her. Some of the cupboards had been left wide open, and he nearly walked into one as he entered. His mother was currently stood with his back to her, digging something out of one of the lower cupboards.

"Mom, I'm old enough to make my own decisions," he said, as she continued to dig through the cupboard contents, seemingly ignoring him, but he knew she was listening. "And I've made a decision, for the first time in my life: I've had enough of just staying here, letting the days drag on by with this menial work. There is a whole damned world out there, and I've been missing out on it for the last seven years. I want to see things outside the four walls of my damned office!"

His mother finally dug a bottle of something out of the cupboard. Robert furrowed his brow.

"Mom, what's that?" he asked, even as heard the sound of a cork popping out of a bottle, and saw her take a swig out of a wine bottle, putting it down on the side counter.

"Mom, don't do that," he said softly, shaking his head. "It won't help anything."

"Maybe not, but it makes me feel better!" she snapped savagely, making him step back suddenly. "Why can't you be happy with having a menial existence? I'm managing just fine the way I am, working to support you both!"

"Well maybe I've had enough of sitting on my ass doing the same thing over and over again!" retorted Robert, not backing down. "Sorry mom, maybe I want to be selfish for a change! Dad and granddad both went away and fought for their countries, for something more than what I have at the moment-"

"And what happened to them?" asked his mother, taking another quick swig of wine. "They both end up with their brains painted up the walls!"

"Well I'm not going to end up like that!" retorted Robert, after a short hesitation. "I'm stronger than that, I know!"

"Do you?" asked his mother, sounding almost mocking. Her back remained turned towards him. "Don't you know that's our family's dirty little secret? All of the men who've go away to war, they can't handle the stress that goes with the responsibility, and they decide to take their own lives. Your father, he couldn't handle the horrors, as I'm sure we all saw…"

Robert lowered his head, the painful memories of that hunting room, smeared in gore and brain matter, came flooding back to him. "There's no need to remind me mom, I was the one to find him there-"

He was almost caught off guard when his mother turned towards him suddenly, and he barely had time to duck down as a half-empty bottle of wine flew through the air and smashed against the far wall of the kitchen behind him. Shards of broken glass and warm liquid splashed onto his back.

"Yes!" yelled his mother, tears streaming down her face. "We all knew you were there! Why Robert? Your dad had blown his own brains out, and you just stood there staring! Why the hell did you just stand there?!"

Robert blinked. He wasn't prepared for that question, and it was one that he hadn't even considered in all that time, he realised. Why didn't he run for help? Why didn't he pick up the phone and call someone? There were several possible actions he could've taken after seeing such a horrific scene, but why didn't he take any of them? Why did he just stand there, looking at that morbid pink and red smear halfway up the wall, his father's own brain matter, dripping onto the floor?

He realised then and there he didn't have an answer. He said the first thing that came to mind.

"I…I don't know." It was probably the most pathetic thing anyone could have said at that time, but it was the only thing that came to mind, and it made him feel two inches tall.

"Well that's _so _good to know," replied his mother sarcastically, shaking her head, as her son just lowered his head in shame. "You know what Robbie? You want to go away and play soldier, that's your choice." Then she leant forward, and the mood in the air became more sinister. "But if you do, then you're no son of mine, throwing your life away like that. You walk out of this house, and I'll have nothing more to do with you."

Robert blinked in surprise as this statement sunk in. All of that anger that was brewing up before, the determination for him to see his decision through to the end was all gone now. He only had one thing left to say now.

"I can't believe you just said that," he said quietly, before he turned and left the kitchen as quietly as a mouse, closing the door to behind him as he went. Once he was gone, his mother stared hatefully at the closed door, breathing slowly to herself, hot tears pricking her eyes. Then she turned her head, towards the old family picture taken outside of the cabin those years ago.

Then she suddenly moved, grabbing the picture frame up in her hands and tossing it as hard as she could manage towards the closed door. It smashed against the door, the glass shattering and spraying across the ground, as she sank to the ground, sobbing freely, her head buried in her arms, all the old anguish brought back to the surface.

Robert stood on the other side of the door, listening intently to his mother sobbing inside. He couldn't fathom exactly what she had been through those years she shut herself out from the rest of the world, as a defence mechanism to her beloved husband taking his own life. She had clearly hated him too, for just standing by as Adam's corpse just lay there and festered away, only speaking about it when he had pushed the right buttons. Clearly, the fact her son was going off to joint the military, the same thing that lead to her husband's demise, was too much for her to handle.

_I'm sorry mom…but I have to do this. _

"Robbie?" asked an innocent voice, and he whirled round suddenly to see his sister standing upon the stairs, looking at him with large, concerned eyes. "What's going on? Why are you and mom talking loud?"

He hesitated for a few seconds, blinking rapidly, before he finally forced a smile and thought of something to say. "Oh no! No, no! Everything's fine, Claudia! Me and mom we're just discussing a few things about her work. Don't worry."

Caludia continued to regard him with her worried eyes, as Robert managed to raise his smile a little more, before he turned and headed towards the front door, pulling it open and stepping out, leaving his little sister alone, with the nearby sobs of her mother.

Despite that incident, Robert kept his pledge to join the military. He passed through his training with flying colours: his superiors said that he was a natural born soldier, and considering his family background, they were right in a way. Though he was shown to be an all-round combatant, he showed a particular affinity for the sniper rifle, being able to pick out targets two inches across from extreme distances. The other snipers said that the 'new guy' was the stuff of regimental legend. By the time he had turned 22, he had joined the prestigious Delta Force, the elite fighting force of the U.S Army. As his squad's designated sniper, he scored countless personal kills through his career, and they were successful in every mission.

Even his mother was starting to become more supportive for what he was doing, and relations between them thawed somewhat. He even started to send letters home when he was away on assignment. His sister was overjoyed to have her brother as a 'big soldier', away fighting for the better good, and this was one of the things that compelled him to carry on, for his family's sake.

But by February 1991, Robert and his squad found themselves posted out to Iraq, to take part in what would become known as the Gulf War. The blistering heat and arid conditions of the desert environment was unlike anything Robert had participated in beforehand, as they pushed Saddam's forces further and further back, away from the oil fields they had captured. Despite the constant danger and the horrors he witnessed, Robert kept himself strong, determined not to let himself fall into the same downward spiral that lead to his father's depression and eventual death.

But it was on that day, when they entered that damned village, was when it all fell apart.

It was a small village, maybe half a dozen mud huts at the most, long abandoned by the time they got there. Robert observed from afar through the scope of his PSG1 sniper rifle, as the remainder of his squad moved up slowly. He scanned the whole village, noting small details such as the doors that hung on their hinges, blowing in the low breeze, and the few goats that wandered to and fro, picking at scraps of food in the dirt. He blinked again as the wind picked up, and several stray grains of sand blew against his scope, scraping the glass. He wiped a dirty gloved hand across his face, and watched as his three squad mates made their way forward, taking up firing points on large mounds just within 15 feet of the outer huts. There was a painfully long pause, as Robert scanned his sight over the front windows of the first hut, before Sergeant Jones gave the all clear.

"All clear," his calm voice, with a trace of Southern accent, whispered in Robert's ears. "You can move up now, Robbie." Scowling in a low manner, Robert pushed himself up and moved forward, keeping his posture low, as not to provide an obvious target to any Iraqi sniper that could be lying in wait in the distance: more than once he had seen someone from his regiment picked off by a sniper who had occupied a firing point nearly a mile away.

Within a couple minutes, they had all gathered within the village's entrance, alert in case an ambush was to come. It wasn't the first time they had found themselves taken by surprise when combing through a seemingly abandoned settlement, only to nearly get wiped out as the enemy erupted from everywhere. They had already survived three such attacks in the past week alone.

"Another damned ghost town," muttered Chris Simco, the group's demolitions expert, glancing around.

"Just keep it together people," barked Jones, looking about before pointing here and there, giving out orders. "You two, cover the west side. I'll take the far end, Robbie: cover the east side." Robert nodded in confirmation, before he moved out, letting his rifle hang from his shoulder and drawing his Beretta, a much safer bet if he were to encounter the enemy in close quarters.

He circled around one of the ramshackle huts, glancing up in time to see Simco disappear around the corner of another residence across the way, clutching his suppressed MP5. Robert followed him for a second, and then went back to focusing on his own immediate area. He circled around the back of the hut, peering in through the crude hole that served as a window. The interior was largely bare, save for a wooden table in the centre of the room, and an old-style fireplace against the far wall, a pile of ashes already left behind. Half-eaten meals had been left behind, and flies buzzed lazily around the scraps left. People lived here once, and now their lives had been turned upside down by the chaos engulfing their country. Then he supposed the same was true with all wars-

He heard the sound of a muted struggle somewhere nearby, and he perked up, turning in the direction of the largest dwelling in the village, at the far side of where they had entered. He listened intently, and he heard the sounds of a scuffle, and he swore he even heard someone crying out, but he couldn't be 100% sure. He waited for a few seconds, but he didn't see Simco and Hodges come running, so he assumed he must've been hearing things. But then he heard the unmistakable accent of Sergeant Jones' voice.

"Shut your trap, bitch!"

It was muffled, but Jones' distinct accent was impossible not to recognise, and the voice didn't come through into his ear either, which meant that the sergeant had switched off his radio so his comrades couldn't hear him: a rookie mistake; and Jones was no rookie. He heard another muffled cry, and then the unmistakable sound of someone being slapped hard.

Robert moved up quickly, not sticking to cover in his haste, and come up beside the dwelling's open doorway, listening intently as he heard the sound of a chair being knocked over inside, and Jones' voice once again.

"What's the matter? Not good enough for me?!" The sergeant's voice seemed to drip with venom as he spoke. Robert furrowed his brow, a concerned look crossing his face.

_What the hell's he doing? _He thought to himself, and then realised it was better if he saw it for himself. Taking in a sharp intake of breath, he spun round into the doorway and entered the home, his Beretta raised. He quickly came to a halt when he saw the scene inside.

Sergeant Jones stood in the centre of the room, his back towards Robert, his assault rifle slung over his shoulder casually. He turned in surprise as Robert entered, his face a mask of shock: he clearly wasn't expecting the interruption from one of his own squad. A few of the furniture items in the room had been knocked over. And lying on the ground at Jones' feet was a young woman in local clothing, her dark hair and striking eyes providing a marked contrast against the light brown and white of her clothing. She looked up at Robert, in an almost pleading, terrified manner. He noticed that her lip had been cut, and small beads of blood dripped down the front of her chin. He looked down at her, and then up at Jones, who started to turn his body towards the sniper, smiling broadly as though nothing was wrong.

"Hey Robbie, what you doing here?" the sergeant asked, trying to be friendly.

"I heard a commotion and figured you were in trouble," said Robert slowly, looking back at the girl, who was fixated on the new arrival now, as though he was her intended saviour. "Your mic was switched off."

"What? Her?" asked the sergeant, waving a dismissive hand towards the fallen girl. He also ignored Robert's comment about his mic being turned off. "I found in her lurking about in the shadows in here, rooting for food, no doubt." He looked down at her directly, and Robert saw how she seemed to shy away in fear, terror almost. "I bet she's a spy for the enemy-"

"-or maybe she's just a scared civilian trying to find some shelter," said Robert firmly, noting the almost leering look in his sergeant's eyes. "Come on, does she honestly look like one of the enemy to you?"

"You can't be too careful in this place boy," retorted Jones, not taking his eyes off of the girl for one second

"P-please," the girl said suddenly, in broken English, looking past the sergeant at Robert. He saw the fear in her dark brown eyes, and he felt something break inside of him. He knew this was why he had come here in the first place, to protect the innocents from the horror of the war that was engulfing her homeland. She didn't deserve to go through this crap: being run out of her home, fearing death at every turn. And now she was being accosted by two complete strangers.

"Please," she said again, trying to sit up. "Help-"

She was cut off as Sergeant Jones' hand suddenly smacked her hard across the cheek, his movement just a blur. Robert flinched at the sudden sound, and the girl fell to the ground hard, moving her hands up around her head as she continued to lie there.

"Shut your fucking mouth bitch!" yelled Jones, towering over her threateningly. Robert tensed up, afraid of what may happen next.

"Sergeant!" he protested. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"Robbie, go and secure the perimeter," ordered Jones flatly.

"I'm not going anywhere-"

Jones whirled about, suddenly getting up in Robert's face, his own hard face a mask of rage.

"I gave you a fucking order, you goddamned pencil neck!" he screamed, his cheeks turning bright red. "No go stand outside and secure the fucking perimeter!"

Robert stood his ground, though he was still shocked and disturbed by Jones behaviour just then. The sergeant was known to have a short fuse if things weren't going his way, but this was unlike anything he had ever witnessed during his time in the unit.

"What? You deaf as well as fucking brain dead?!" asked Jones, getting right in front of Robert, their noses barely an inch apart. "Go…secure…the perimeter," he then said, forcing each word out between his clenched teeth. Then he turned away from the sniper, walking towards the girl once again, a fresh stream of blood pouring from her lip.

"Now…where were we?" he asked the girl, who know backed away as she lay on the ground, her pained sobs turning into whimpers of fear, that only intensified as the sergeant withdrew his serrated combat knife from its leg holster, twirling it about in his fingers a few times. "Ah yes, that's right," he then said casually. "Now I, am going to fuck you sick ways from Sunday…"

_Click._

Jones stopped in his path at the sound of a hammer being cocked behind him. He slowly turned around to see Robert Devlan stood before him, his Beretta handgun readied and aimed towards the centre of his torso. His face was set.

"Robbie, what you doing, you crazy fucker?" asked Jones, laughing somewhat.

"Leave her alone," ordered Robert firmly, his aim not wavering. Jones just scoffed

"I have to do this lad, we can't take any chances with people, you know that," protested Jones, trying to remain friendly, despite the fact his combat knife continued to hang in his hand. "Just put the gun away-"

"I said leave her alone," repeated Robert, a bit more forceful this time. Jones seemed to tighten up a little as the implication of the sniper's tone started to sink in. "She's just a damn civilian, she's already been ran out of her home, she doesn't need this too!"

"Think carefully about what you're doing laddie," the sergeant said calmly. "You've pulled a weapon on your commanding officer. You put the gun down and walk away, everything will work out fine as normal…but if you pull that trigger-"

"I'm not leaving you alone with her," snapped Robert, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead, partly from the heat and partly from the tension in the air. Even the mystery local girl was holding her breath, waiting for the next horribly inevitable move. Jones remained rooted to the spot, and then started to chuckle.

"You know Robbie, you were a hell of a shot, but you're so damned self-righteous," snarled the sergeant, his friendly façade vanishing now in the face of the sniper's stubbornness. "Do you know how long it's been since I had a good lay?! Jesus! I feel as though I'm going to explode!"

"So leave her out of this," retorted Robert. "I joined the military to protect people, not hurt them like this!"

"Then you're a bloody fool!" snapped Jones, pointing the blade of his knife towards Robert. "The so-called 'good guys' have been doing horrible things in warfare since the days of Cain and Abel! The Crusades, the Boer War, the World Wars; hell, even Vietnam-"

The mention of the place that had corrupted Robert's father made something inside the sniper snap. He nearly dropped his Beretta to the ground, but he managed to maintain control for the time being. "Shut up!" he then yelled forcefully. "Don't you dare use those as an excuse to justify your own damned behaviour-"

"I'm just saying," replied Jones, turning his back on Robert suddenly, and pulling something else out of his flak vest. "One, you'll agree with me. And if not, then I'll just have to teach you a lesson you won't forget." Then he turned suddenly, his own Beretta handgun in his fist. Both men pulled the trigger at the same time.

Robert's round smacked into the middle of the sergeant's flak vest, knocking him backwards, while the other shot whistled past Robert's ear by half an inch, smacking into the wall just above the dwelling's main entrance. The girl screamed abruptly, scrambling to her feet as Jones, looked down at the smocking black mark on his flak vest, his face showing utter shock. Robert wore a similar expression, horrified at what he had just done.

_But there's no going back now…_

"You son of a-" growled Jones, raising his arm as fast as he could, as Robert pulled the trigger again.

His second shot came impossibly loud within the confines of the dwelling, the bullet smacking into Sergeant Jones' collarbone, just above the top portion of his flak vest. A small red cloud burst from the flesh, and Jones barked out a cough, the impact of the round throwing him onto his back, his Beretta flying out of his grasp and onto the floor away from him. He hit the ground hard, blood spurting out from the fresh wound. Jones continued to lie on his back for a time, looking around him weakly as blood bubbled from his lips. Then he raised a hand to his chest and put it down, staring at the crimson liquid that dripped onto the dusty ground, before looking back up at Robert.

The sniper continued to stand there for what seemed like an eternity, staring down at the fallen form of his superior, who just continued to regard him with his dark blue eyes, until finally he let off one final sigh, his eyes rolling into the back of his head, and his arm slumped to the side, lifeless. Robert let out a huge sigh of relief as Jones finally gave up the ghost. But at the same time, he felt a wrenching feeling in his gut at what he had just done.

_My God…what did I just do?_

He quickly ignored that feeling when he realised that the girl was still there. He looked up at her, leaning against the far wall, heavy tears marking her face now. Initially, she had seemed relieved when he had entered the dwelling initially, viewing him as her saviour from the unstable brute about to do god-knows-what to her. But after seeing him shoot one of his own dead, she looked about as scared as she had the first time he had entered, with Sergeant Jones towering over her.

"Look," he said quietly, raising his hands up to show he meant no harm. "I'm not going to hurt you-"

He took a step towards her and she moved back, making a stifled cry. He took a deep breath and tried again.

"I'm sorry, he was going to hurt you!" he explained, but she continued to look at him, clearly terrified. "You have to believe me…I'd never do something like that-"

He heard the rapid footsteps outside, and he turned quickly in time to see Simco and Gary Wallace, the other member of their squad, barge into the dwelling with their weapons raised. They skidded to a halt when they saw Robert standing there.

"We heard the gunfire," gasped Gary, "what's going on-?"

Then he looked past Robert and saw the body of Sergeant Jones lying still, a large pool of blood spreading beneath him. He looked back at Robert, seeing the drawn Beretta in his hand, smoke still issuing from the barrel, and his eyes went wide in terror. "Oh God Robbie, what the hell have you done?!" It took Robert only a few seconds to realise what he had already decided.

"No guys, it's not like that!" he protested loudly, turning round to view the scene. "He was going to-"

His words caught in his throat when he saw that the dwelling was empty. Sergeant Jones body continued to lie spread-eagled in the middle of the dusty floor, his blood staining the ground, but otherwise there was no-one else there. The dwelling's rear entrance was left wide open.

He never saw that girl again.

* * *

Back in the present day, Robert Devlan stood just outside an abandoned outdoor pursuits store, examining the window displays before him. Right in front of him was a pale-skinned mannequin, dressed in practical hunting clothes and holding a Mako S75 rifle between its positioned hands. Its expressionless face wasn't that much different from the countless zombies he had seen so far, though the difference was that this one wasn't trying to brutally kill him. He noticed the figure's bright red hunting jacket, hauntingly similar to the one his father would wear on his own hunting trips years before, and he felt something tug at his stomach, making him uncomfortable. Knowing that it was bringing unpleasant memories back, he turned away and walked out into the street.

He had no idea where he was now: all of the streets looked practically identical now, covered in wrecked vehicles, trash, and dead bodies, dried blood spreading out from them and running away into nearby drains. Flies buzzed lazily around some of the corpses, fresh maggots wriggling in the open wounds. The smell was atrocious. At the far end of the road, through the smoke billowing from a car that had crashed front-first through, he could see a few figures staggering about, oblivious to his presence.

It had been half an hour since he had left the clock tower behind, or rather what was left of it as a burning helicopter crashed into it. It seemed appropriate considering how so much else of the city had gone to hell, even one of its major landmarks shouldn't get off lightly. He glanced around, but the nearest street sign had been ripped out of its foundation when a pick-up truck had swerved across the road and smashed into it, and now it was just a crumpled piece of steel lying about 20 feet away from him. In short: he had no idea whereabouts he was. Though it mattered little now.

He'd just been wandering aimlessly since leaving the tower, unsure of what he would even do next: there was probably very little left in a city filled with the undead. Not unless he made a run for the city limits, and he doubted the soldiers would let him pass by in the state he was currently in. They'd probably mistake him for a zombie from fifty yards away and blow him away to be safe. No, he was better off staying within the city.

He heard a rather weak groan from somewhere to his right, and he turned his head to see a shadowy figure loitering in the open doorway of a book store, a man wearing a green cardigan and with one of his eyeballs swinging loosely from the socket, moving in the breeze like a clock pendulum. The figure moaned again and took a shaky step forward, revealing that the flesh on its face was starting to slough off of the bone. As it moved again, a few more figures stirred within the store, a low chorus of groaning starting to pick up, the figures lining up within the doorway behind the guy in the cardigan, trying to push through. From further to the right, he could see another throng of zombies starting to gather.

"Time to go," he whispered to himself, turning and taking off down a side street, vaulting over a partially crushed car.

* * *

Three hours. That's how long it took the court to condemn Robert Devlan to military prison.

He was charged with the murder of his squad leader in cold blood. Though he constantly protested his innocence and the incident with the local girl, no-one believed him. There was no trace of that girl every being there, and subsequently, his defence was thrown out: and besides, it was his word against a dead man. He was given life, and then later he found the court going for the death sentence. Amazingly, his old squad had pushed for it through: despite everything they had been through together, they just gave him up like a piece of meat. No regiment in the world would ever admit to having an unhinged psycho like Jones among their number, after all. In that regard, Robert had been offered up as a sacrificial lamb to protect the regiment's integrity and reputation.

He could see the faces of his family sat in the courtroom, across from where he, as the defendant, Claudia's face distraught at seeing her beloved bigger brother in the dock, and also his mother's face: seemingly resigned to the fact that he would go down for a murder he committed in good stead, but there was something else in that look as well: disappointment, it seemed, disgust even. But Robert wondered why the hell she would look at her own son in that manner. Though he would find out himself soon enough, when she came to visit him just days after he had been sentenced. Though he was glad to see her come through the door, the resigned look on her face made him a little uncomfortable. Then when they had their conversation on the phones through the reinforced glass, he realised the truth.

"I told you."

"What?" he asked, frowning. "What are you talking about, mom?"

"You remember what I said to you? When you first told me that you wanted to be a soldier?" she asked, jogging his memory. His mind started to wander back to that afternoon he told her he was adamant about joining the military. "I said that if you became a soldier, that you would be no son of mine. And it looks as though I was right in saying that…"

"Mom, they want to tie me to a damned pole and shoot me dead," said Robert, getting a little emotional considering the circumstances. "They're going to kill me, and you can only talk about some bust up we had a few years back? Dammit, I thought we were past all of that!"

"You killed a man, Robert!" shot his mother back. "Your own squad leader, at least!"

"He was going to hurt that girl, mom!" retorted Robert, angrily. "I don't care if he was the commander in chief, there was no dammed way I was going to walk out that house and leave him alone with her! I saw that look in his eye- he'd gone off the deep end...just like those guys Dad was always going on about-"

"Then why can't they find any evidence of this girl being there?" she then asked, flatly. Robert blinked, before he let off a slight scoff.

"Mom, I seriously hope you don't believe those legal pricks over your own son?" he asked, laughing nervously.

"Robbie, I don't know what to believe anymore," she said, shaking her head slowly. "All I know is that when your dad went away to become a soldier, he came back a changed man…"

Robert instantly knew where this was going, and he felt a pang of guilt inside him. He'd been so set on becoming a soldier so he could feel as though he could protect the ones he loved, that he forgot what the exact same thing did to his own father.

"And I was patient with him. Hell, even the times he tried to throttle me when he was having one of his nightmares," Margaret Devlan continued, tears forming in her eyes. "I was hopeful that he would get better, he would go back to the caring man I married. But no, after all my hard work, he just went and blew his brains out all over that damned hunting room…and then Claudia didn't have a dad to grow up with. All because you were there with him…"

"Mom," whispered Robert, shaking his head in disbelief. "You can't blame me for what happened to dad…how was I supposed to know he would take his own life? He never talked to me about you-know-what…"

"You were there with him when he did it!" protested Margaret. "You must have said something to him, something that drove him over the edge, otherwise he'd still be here!"

"Yeah, I admit, I asked him about his time in Vietnam," said Robert. But only because you both shut me out for so long, never telling me about what he had gone through, but for god's sake mom, none of that matters now!" He then yelled, rising to his feet and making a fair amount of noise in the process. "They're going to have me killed!"

"I can't go through it again," she said, seemingly miles away. "I can't go through the pain of losing another person I love-"

"I'm still here mom!" cried Robert, his grip tightening on his phone, his knuckles starting to turn white. "You can't just shut me out like I never existed!"

"-and I found all of that stuff as well," she said suddenly, fixing him with a cold glare. "All of that old war stuff your father kept, the same things he always used to show you? Your grandad's old photos and other mementos? I threw it all out, after I first heard what had happened. All those dammed fantasies they put in your head-"

"Mom!" protested Robert, banging against the glass. "Don't do this to me!" Tears were starting to form in his eyes, partly tears of anger and partly of sorrow as well.

"I'm sorry Robert," she said sadly, shaking her head. "I've already made my decision. I'm not going to let this ruin our lives again…the Devlan family's already suffered enough embarrassment in the past."

"An embarrassment?!" asked Robert, his voice rising in anger. "I'm your fucking son! You can't just walk away from me!"

"Hey, chill out!" barked a prison guard, suddenly appearing at Robert's shoulder.

"Back off!" stormed Robert, giving him a deathly glare, before turning quickly back to face his mother again, the tears starting to fall down her cheeks. "For god's sake mom, don't just leave me here!"

"Goodbye, Robert," she said coldly, hanging up the phone on her side of the glass and standing up to leave. Robert felt his hope break in half as she turned away, her back starting to move away towards the door: and any chance of aid from his remaining parent rapidly vanishing.

"Mom!" he screamed, slamming his arms against the reinforced glass nosily, but she didn't turn. "Don't leave me in here!" he screamed again, as the guard tried to take a hold of his arm, but he struggled madly.

"Knock it off!" the burly man demanded, and Robert replied in kind by ramming his arm backwards, his elbow smashing the guard's mouth, sending him reeling backwards in a spray of red. He had barely hit the gorund when the door slammed open and a second one entered, but Robert ignored him, watching through the glass as his mother calmly exited through the other door.

"Mom!" he yelled, slamming against the glass yet again as the two prison guards took a hold of him, pinning his arms behind his back, but he struggled against them, throwing his whole body weight against the glass in a desperate attempt to get his mother's attention.

"MOM!"

He never saw his mother again after that incident. He was shocked by how casual she was in just leaving him there to his fate, how disappointed she sounded in what had happed to her only son. No matter how much he wrote to her, he never once received a reply. But his sister, Claudia, remained loyal to him as always. She would visit at least once every couple of months, as he found his sentence being strung out more and more, for reasons he would never fully understand. Who knew, maybe they liked watching him flail about pathetically, like a fish out of water.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, as she picked up the receiver on her side of the glass barrier.

"I'd rather you came later then not at all," he said, smiling slightly. "But anyway, how's college for you?"

"It's going great," she smiled, nodding. "It's coming up to the leaver's prom though, and I still need to find a date to go with…you'd think at least someone would have the nerve to come up and ask me if I want to go?"

"I'm sure you'll find someone in good time," nodded Robert, staring through the transparent barrier at his little sister. Her blonde hair was long and curly now, starting to reach down past her shoulders, somewhat resembling the younger version of his mother he had seen in an old picture his dad would show him every now and then. She had grown up so fast since he left to join the army- and he hadn't been there to watch over her…like his dad had asked him to. He cursed his selfishness, and not fo the first time either.

"Robert?" she said suddenly, and he looked back up quickly. "You allright?"

He sighed deeply and looked away, staring at some point in the distance. Then he looked back at her. "I'm sorry Claudia."

"What about?"

"When dad was still alive, he told me to always take care of you, to be the best big brother I could be," he explained, his voice starting to strain. "But how can I do that now? From behind bars, for something I did in the heat of the moment."

"Oh Robbie, don't say that," said Claudia sadly, "you just did what you thought was right."

"But I killed a man!" he wailed, getting the attention of guard standing behind him, who shifted in place in case the prisoner was to try anything rash. "I shot a man, you heard what they all said in court!"

"But you saved that girl!" his sister retorted. "If you had just walked out of that house, who knows what your sergeant would have done to her?"

"Well no-one believes me anyone else was there," said Robert bitterly, "so why should I even believe myself?" Claudia was silent as he kept going, the emotion clear in his voice. "Jesus, even if my own mother tries to rub me out of the family history, then why the hell should I even bother trying to convince myself otherwise?!"

"I believe you Robert!" she said loudly, pushing one of her hands against the glass. "Whatever happened out there, I know you just acted, like you always have. You might have not been in any position to protect me when you went away, but you were away protecting someone else at least!"

"Whatever," said Robert dismissively, shaking his head. "You have no idea what this place is like. It's designed to strip away everything a man holds dear to himself, until he's left with nothing. There's one guy who's practically spent his whole sentence in solitary. They wouldn't hesitate to do the same to me if I stepped out of line…how is this any way for a great hero to sepdn his time? I'm sorry Claudia, but I'm no hero."

"Oh Robert…" she whispered.

This continued for the next few years, the days seeming to last an eternity in that damned place. Soon enough it was 1995, and a date was finally arranged for his execution: the 10th February. He would be taken out into the central yard, tied to the pole at one end of the area, a bag over his head, before half a dozen soldiers would line up several paces away, and ventilate him. He had seen it more than a few times from his tiny cell window: saw the anonymous figure struggle like mad, saw the rounds tear through their soft bodies, and saw them slump lifelessly, their head bowed.

Claudia came to visit him the last time, 3 days beforehand. Thankfully, the guards allowed the two of them to see each other in an open room, with no reinforced glass to separate them. Suffice to say, emotions were running high through their 15 minute meeting, but once the tears had passed away, she had a confession to make.

"Robert, I have to admit something," she said, sheepishly lowering her head. "I've been lying."

"About what?" he asked.

"About coming here to see you," she answered. "When mom found out the first time I'd been, she went ballistic. She didn't want me coming to see you at all."

Robert scoffed and turned away, smirking a little. "She can't stop you coming to see your own brother. Like I've said time and time before, she can't just write me out of the family."

"She says otherwise," replied Claudia. "She thinks I'm studying right now- I had to climb out the window and shimmy down the drainpipe to come here today. She'll probably have my life, but I don't care. I had to come and see you one last time."

"That's my sis," laughed Robert, reaching out and ruffling her hair playfully. She smiled wide and pushed his hand away, both of them laughing as though they were children playing innocently. Though of course one of them wouldn't be there for much longer. "But what about your studies?" he then asked, changing the subject.

"Oh, they're going great!" she beamed. "Got my finals in a few months time. They'd normally be a bit sooner but considering the circumstances, they've allowed me some leeway with my results…but I'm confident I can do it."

"That's good to hear," Robert nodded, lowering his head. "Whatever happens in your life Claudia, you can only do your best: it's all you can do. It's all we ever did…All I ever did..."

His voice started to trail off as he stared at some point in the near distance, and then he looked back towards her, making contact with her concerned, emerald green eyes. He felt the discomfort rising inside his stomach, even as he started to form the words for his next statement.

"You should forget about me, Claudia."

"Robbie, don't say that," she replied, holding onto his arm. "No matter how bad things are, you can't let yourself accept defeat."

"Mom's right through," he reasoned. "Forgetting about me…I know it sounds reprehensible, but she has good reason for doing so; I understand now. I don't know if you remember, but after dad died, she regressed into herself. It was like she was an empty shell, like she'd lost all purpose to live. It was horrific Claudia…she loved dad so much."

"Robbie…"

"It's her way of coping. After what happened to dad, she doesn't want to go through all that crap yet again…so she just shuts it all out, won't discuss any of it," he continued, ignoring her concerned expression. "If she acts like nothing's wrong, that's fine by me…of course many would disagree with that, but our mother's always been stubborn."

"But despite that, I can't just forget you Robert!" she retorted, moving his head round so he could face her eye to eye. "I know I never knew dad that well, but you were there to make up for that. You only did the best you could, Robert."

"Well look where my best got me," he muttered in response.

"But you shouldn't have any regrets!" she continued. "They can all say what they want Robbie, but at least you went away to do something worthwhile! You wanted to be a hero, just like dad and granddad were, didn't you?"

Robert turned his gaze away, letting the words sink in. Then he started to raise his head once again, slowly nodding in agreement. "I guess…you could say that. After years of just sitting on my rear, working and working just to provide for both of you, I wanted something more. Maybe going away to fight was my way of finding something to fight for. You and mom…you were both worth fighting for. And dad's memory...that was worth fighting for too."

A few minutes later, it was finally time for her to go, and the siblings embraced for seemed like an age. When they finally released, he saw that Claudia was on the verge of crying, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. He carefully moved one of his hands up and wiped away a stray drop. "Hey, don't cry."

"I can't help it," she sobbed. "You won't be there in a few days time."

"Hey come on, I've never tried to run away from what I did," replied Robert. "Never once. It wouldn't be right for me to try and back down now, after everything that's happened, would it?"

"But still-"

"And I'll still be watching over you and mom both, like dad has been," he continued, tears starting to form in his eyes. "So try not to be strong, you hear? You need to take care of mom now."

"I think she can take care of herself, but I'll do my best," she smiled, the tears still wet on her cheeks. "I love you Robbie," she then sobbed, hugging onto him even more tightly.

"I love you too," he whispered, just as the guard put a hand on his shoulder to show that their time was finally up.

"Come on Robert, that's enough," he said in an emotionless tone.

"Geez, have some heart man," he just said as the two siblings released, and the handcuffs were put back on him, the cold steel rubbing into his skin. As he was lead out of the room, he looked back over his shoulder, towards his poor sister, left all alone in that cold room. As the door swung shut behind them, he knew that would be the last time he would ever talk to his sister.

But events that day would be due to take a more interesting turn, as he found as he lay on his steel bed, staring up at the filthy tiled ceiling just above him, at the exact same spot he had stared up at for the last 4 years, when he heard the heavy rap of a nightstick against the steel door. He just continued to lay there for a while, staring up, but when he heard the rapping again, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, just as the door banged open and a pair of guards entered, one of them with his nightstick already drawn.

"Come on, you got another visitor."

Robert raised an eyebrow in suspicion. "Another visitor?" he asked. "Who?"

"Just come with us," barked the guard with his weapon drawn, stepping forward.

Judging by the rather harsh expression on the man's face, Robert figured it was best to go along with them. And soon enough he found himself in yet another bare tiled room, his handcuffs also linked to the steel ring drilled into the table. He was totally alone, and the fact that he had heard the guard's footsteps leaving down the corridor a few minutes beforehand had left him feeling more than a little nervous. He called out a few times, but no answer was heard.

"Hello?" he called again, straining to turn his body towards the door directly behind him. But he heard no-one, just his echo going back and forth down the corridor outside. He sighed in frustration and turned away, lowering his head to the table, resting his forehead against the surface. He started to feel as though he had been left out here to dry.

Then he heard the heavy footsteps from outside, coming towards the door. He held his breath, waiting until they came to a halt just outside. Then he heard the doorknob turn, and then the door swung open, the heavy footsteps entering the room, walking around him and finally coming to a rest directly opposite him. He kept his head down, and breathed in deeply before he finally spoke up.

"Considering I have only 3 days left to live on this earth, you had better have a fucking good reason for dragging me down here and leaving me chained up like a dog because believe me, I have far more important things to worry about."

"Oh, I do apologise for the inconvenience," replied a deep voice in a thick Russian accent, "but trust me, it will be worth it all in the end."

The voice made Robert nearly jump out of his skin, and he snapped his gaze up to see his 'visitor', a man of towering stature wearing a deep blue trench coat, his arms rigid by his side, his grey hair tied back into a ponytail. His face looked as though it were carved from granite, his right eye marked with a long scar. He stared down at Robert, as though he were a predator considering his next meal.

"W-what?" asked Robert, confused. "Who the hell are you?"

"Well, that would depend," replied the big man, slowly walking around the room's perimeter, circling the chained prisoner. "Either I'm the one who will release you from this hell, or I will be the one who sends you to shake hands with the devil himself."

"That didn't answer my question," snapped Robert, prickly. "Who the hell are you?"

"Oh, I am Sergei Vladimir," the Russian said, as though he were in casual conversation with an old friend. "And I…I have an interest in you, Mr Devlan."

"And what interest would that be?" snorted Robert, playing along.

"Well, let's just say that I'm the sort of man who has need of people with your skill set," the Russian continued, making an effort to make some sort of mile, but with his granite face, it just looked plain creepy.

"My skill set?" asked Robert, jangling at his handcuffs and glancing back towards the door. He was starting to feel a bit more uneasy now.

"You were once a sniper with the Delta Force unit, weren't you?" asked the Russian, moving around to stand next to Robert, moving down right next to his ear. "They said you were the best shot in your unit, perhaps even your regiment's history. Now that is a very impressive, I have to say-"

"Yeah, I _was _the best sniper in my unit," retorted Robert, turning to face his 'visitor' eye to eye. "But if you know how good I was, then maybe you know why I'm in here? Killing my squad leader in cold blood?"

"Oh, of course," replied Sergei, turning away and walking round the room again, before standing before the one-way mirror, fiddling with something inside his coat. "Places like these is where I find most of my best men, after all."

"Your best men?" asked Robert, with a slight scoff. "So this is like a hobby for you?"

"More like business," said Sergei, turning to reveal the rather intricately-carved double-bladed knife he now held in his right hand, twirling it about his fingers almost absent-mindedly. Robert drew back I surprise as soon as he saw the weapon. Sergei didn't seem to notice this fear, as he carefully laid the blade in the palm of his left fist, closing his fingers around it deliberately.

"Because you see, I was like you once," explained the Russian, small trails of blood starting to appear from between the clenched fingers of his hand, but the man didn't seem to notice this. "I was a soldier once, I served my country with every ounce of distinction and duty, and how was I repaid? My country fell, and I was left with nothing. No purpose, no reason to live; nothing!" The anger tinged in his voice was almost blatant, even as he drew the knife away, the blade covered in deep crimson liquid. "But that doesn't matter now," he continued, staring at the blade as though enchanted, "because I have a purpose now…and you will help me maintain that purpose."

Then he raised the knife to his mouth and slowly and deliberately, licked the side of the blade, his tongue caressing the steel surface. Then he moved the blade away, strands of blood dripping down the front of his chin, but the huge man didn't seem that concerned by this. Rather, he looked as though he seemed to enjoy. Then he smiled in an almost sadistic manner, and that was enough for Robert, who tried to turn and get up, but the handcuffs prevented him going anywhere.

"Guard!" he yelled, loud as he could manage. "This fucker's lost his nut!" He looked back toward Sergei, who just continued to stand there, blood dripping off of his chin, twirling his knife around in his hand. Robert turned away again, sweat beads rolling down his neck. "Guard!"

"No-one is coming, Mr Devlan," stated Sergei flatly, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth to clear the blood away. "You're not going anywhere until I've heard an answer from you."

"You think I'm taking any offers from a self-harming nut like you?!" laughed Robert, trying to struggle out of his handcuffs.

"You can't at least listen to my offer?" asked the Russian, laughing in that deep voice of his. "That's not being very polite, is it?"

"Manners tend to go out the window in cases like these," muttered Robert, struggling with his bonds yet again, but stopping when they dug into his wrists, and he reluctantly gave up. Then he heard the clatter of something small landing on the table, and he looked up to see a small pin badge lying face-down before him. He looked back up at the Russian, who just stood there watching. "What's this?" the former sniper asked, indicating the badge.

"It represents my employer," the visitor replied. The two of them maintained a locked stare for what seemed like an age, before Robert finally reached out with his fingers, taking the object up in his hand. He turned it over and opened his fingers. The badge was in the shape of an octagon, divided into 8 equal-sized segments, 4 white and 4 red. He recognised it immediately.

"Umbrella?" he asked. "Why would a global pharmaceutical company want an ex-Delta Force on their payroll?" Most people in the world knew Umbrella very well: he had even used their miracle first-aid spray product to heal the wounds of himself and his squad members out in Iraq.

"That is a long story, comrade," replied Sergei, walking around the table yet again. As he did, Robert noted the countless old scars on the Russian's bare hands, probably the result of previous self-mutilation periods. "And I will tell you all, if you agree to join our cause."

"Our cause?" asked Robert. "I haven't even agreed to anything yet," he then snorted, tossing the badge down so it skittered across the table away from him. Sergei looked down briefly at the badge, before he carefully pinched it between his fingers and picked it back up, dropping it inside one of his coat pockets.

"I'm sorry that you feel that way," he said slowly, starting to walk around the table again. "But when the Soviet Union fell, I had nothing left. But Umbrella, they gave me a purpose, gave me something for me to focus on…and trust me, they will be able to give you the same second chance I was offered. So, my friend, what do you say?" Robert looked up at Sergei, with an angry stare. Then he opened his mouth and gave his answer.

"Fuck you, scarface."

Sergei was silent for a painfully long time, before he finally started to smirk, and then he let off a laugh, that grew in volume as his smirk turned into a grin. Then he suddenly stepped forward, a flash of steel appearing in Robert's face as the Russian's double-bladed knife suddenly appeared again. The ex-sniper drew back in fear as the blade stopped barely half an inch away from his nose. He could still smell the coppery tinge of Sergei's blood on the blade. He glanced up, past the blade at the Russian, the smile now gone from his face.

"Go on," said Robert. "You'll save them the bullets for when the time comes."

"No, I won't kill you," said Sergei, drawing away, removing his blade from Robert's face, who finally relaxed somewhat. "Because that would be a waste of your potential, of your talent. But I will offer you a simple choice, Mr Devlan. You can either go ahead with your execution, so they'll take you to that pole out there, tie you down and then shoot you dead," the Russian continued, pointing towards the small window on the right side of the cell.

"-and that would be it, the end of your story," he finished, finally sheathing his blade away from view, and Robert relaxed somewhat. "Or, you can accept my offer. If you do, then we can take you away from here, out of this hellhole…all of your previous transgressions will be forgotten, and you can start afresh, a new life for yourself-"

"Doing what?" interrupted Robert. "You still haven't told me what you want me to do exactly!" The thought of some major global pharmaceutical company taking ex-soldiers out of jail made him feel somewhat suspicious.

"That will become clear to you if you accept," said the Russian calmly, as Robert scowled loudly at his visitor's reluctance to divulge. "But in the end, it is your choice. Now, you can either let me take you away from here, away from death, because I know you know there's more you want to accomplish in life. Your story's not meant to end here, is it?"

Robert breathed quietly as he tried to avoid the Russian's stare, but he had no choice when Sergei leaned right in towards him, close enough so he could smell the big man's breath.

"So…? What do you say? Or is 'fuck you scarface' your final answer?"

Robert finally locked eyes with the huge Russian, considering his choices. To be honest, he trusted this guy as far as he could throw him. The fact he just appeared out of no-where, so close to his execution date, offering him some form of last-minute redemption, just stunk of something clandestine. And he claimed he worked for a pharmaceutical company, of all things as well. His instinct told him to say no.

But still…Sergei was right in a way. If he refused to accept the Russian's offer, then they would take him to be executed anyway in 3 days time, and that would be it. His name on the footnote of the regiment's history, a life-long representation as a murderer. That wasn't what he wanted from life. He wanted to be remembered for something more than that, and Sergei was giving him the opportunity to have just that. He would come to regret it later in life, but for the time being-

"Fine," he said, leaning back in his seat. "I'll go with you. But on one condition."

"Go on," said Sergei, casually, as though fully expecting that reply.

"I want it to look as though my execution goes ahead," said Robert, dryly. "My family can't know about what I've done." Sergei started to smile, and then he started to laugh in a low manner.

"That is all, comrade?" he asked, laughing some more. "Something like that is a drop in the ocean for Umbrella! Of course we'd be able to arrange that…we can find some reprobate off of a street corner to act as your stand-in…" The mere thought of that made Robert feel a little uncomfortable, but he couldn't show it now.

"Yes, that's all," he confirmed.

* * *

Back in the present, Robert Devlan leaned heavily against the brick wall of the building just beside where he was stood, staring up at some point on the horizon. The sun was beginning to rise, a warm orange hue starting to slice through the harsh darkness of the early morning. Small contrails of smoke still marked the sky here and there, as fires raged out of control. And the constant chorus of moaning told him that the streets remained unsafe.

He had ended up here all because of that Russian bastard, agreeing to work for him. He had only agreed because his last meeting with Claudia beforehand had made him long for another chance, something to make up for his fuck up when he joined the military. But this…fighting genetically-created monsters in a city being engulfed by hell: he never imagined for a second that choice would lead him here. That last day in prison seemed so vivid when he thought about it: he remembered being lead down to the execution yard, before he was diverted off through another back passage, into the parking lot where Sergei was waiting to collect him. On the way, he had passed by another figure dressed in a prison jumpsuit and with a hood over his head, struggling like mad: presumably the 'reprobate' Sergei had found to stand in for him. Robert never found out who he was, the man that would take his sentence for him.

His eyes started to well up, a solitary tear rolling down his dirt-stained cheek, before he started to choke back a few sobs, covering his mouth so as not to make too much obvious noise.

What was he doing here? His entire life had been one long string of disasters: his naive, small-town existence, shattered when his father enrolled and went away to be a soldier, before coming back an empty shell of his former self. Then he took his life in that damned hunting room, and Robert, reading his dad's writings and having some idealistic thoughts about the whole family history, became a soldier himself, to protect the world, to protect the ones he loved…and what did that accomplish? A spell on death row, and being disowned by his own mother. And then to top it all off, he found himself battling nightmarish monsters created by some goddamned company trying to play god. How could one man fall so far?

But none of that mattered anymore. His choices had still lead him to this place, and there was no way of going back to change anything now. He had no choice but to see his journey through to the end, and likely that journey's end wasn't too far away now, as he listened to the nearby moans.

He took a deep breath and wiped a hand across his face, wiping away the tears that still lingered. He then turned his head to the side, raising his M4A1 carefully, observing as a pair of zombies lingered at the open far end of the alleyway. From what he could tell, he was just off of the bottom end of Main Street, which had apparently been badly damaged by desperate efforts by the R.P.D to destroy the zombie hordes, but where he was standing it looked as though this part of the street had gotten off lightly. He checked his current magazine and then moved forward, being careful where he put his feet, as large shards of shattered glass littered the ground. He came up behind a pair of loitering zombies and pulled down the trigger, the rifle roaring within the narrow space. Red hot rounds splattered their skulls open like ripe watermelons, and they slumped to the floor. He stepped over their bodies and out into the open street.

To the north, Main Street was blocked off by a raging inferno that crossed the entire breadth of the road, but a crowd of at least a few hundred zombies stood before the blaze, swaying and moaning in creepy unison. A few vehicles had stopped on the road, mainly cars, but around 50 feet away there was a massive fuel tanker, parked sideways across the road from where it had jack-knifed. Both sides of the street were raised up; the various store fronts and apartment blocks up out of the reach of anyone down on the road, but also funnelling the zombie horde down onto the tarmac, where it would be impossible for anyone to get down. To his left, more zombies gathered, not as many as the horde to his right, but enough for concern. But he wasn't looking for a way around them. He stepped towards the horde, pulling back the bolt on his M4.

He'd kill as many of these bastards as he could before he died himself.

He held the rifle at head level, squeezed down the trigger, and swept the weapon round in a wide arc, holding on as it bucked and jumped in his arms. At least a dozen zombies shuddered and fell, and most of the crowd suddenly swung round to face the disturbance, jostling with one another to get at the potential meal before them. Robert sprayed off the last few rounds one handed, ripping apart the upper torso and of a rather hefty man in a shredded blue shirt. Gore sprayed onto the face of the blonde woman in a pink vest-top just behind, but her vacant face barely reacted as she was splattered at point-blank range.

The assault rifle clicked on empty, and Robert ripped the empty magazine away and tossing it aside, before slamming a fresh one home. He moved away as the crowd circled around him, reaching out their arms. Robert ripped a frag grenade free from his vest and pulled the pin free, tossing it as far as he could manage over the heads of the zombie line before him. The undead creatures paid it no attention.

BOOM!

The ground rocked and a plume of flame and black smoke rose into the sky, lifting nearly two dozen zombies and various liquefied organs into the air. Robert turned away and raised his arm up just as a load of blood splashed down onto him. A female zombie, smoke rising from her singed hair and back, flopped onto her back a few feet away from him, and then started to sit up immediately. Robert aimed down and fired a single shot through her face. She fell back, blood squirting from her caved-in face.

The U.B.C.S sniper wiped a hand across his face, smearing the rancid blood away, and opened fire again. A few more shambling figures crumpled like wet paper, and he felt the sweat pour down his back. He was a fair distance away from the massive blaze covering the street, but he could still feel the intense heat pricking at his exposed face and arms, but he couldn't let himself be distracted, not now. He turned to face the crowd again, regarding their scabbed, blank faces for a brief second before firing again.

RATATATATAT!

The constant chatter of the rifle firing, combined with the moaning of the zombie crowd, stung his ears, threatening to deafen him, almost to the point where he didn't hear the creaky movements directly behind him.

He turned just as a wasted-looking young man wearing a white vest and black shorts made a lunge for him, but Robert, was able to grab a hold of one of his arms, flipping him over his shoulder in a text-book move. The zombie's shoulder popped out of its socket during the wrenching movement, before he smacked against the tarmac and tried to sit up, but Robert lowered his M4A1 and fired a burst into his face, splattering blood and brain tissue all over the ground.

_Close, but no cigar…_

He looked left and right, settling his gaze on the jack-knifed fuel tanker parked about 30 feet away from where he was. A few zombies lingered around the vehicle itself, but most of the street's occupants focused on the fresh meal before them. He started to move towards the tanker, shooting a few more zombies that blocked his way, dancing around the bodies as they fell to the floor. A female with a portion of her scalp starting to peel away made a dashing lunge for him, but he raised his left leg and launched a kick into her stomach, pushing her back into the other zombies behind her. Next to her, a bearded man in a red chequered shirt stepped forward, but Robert whirled his rifle around like a club, smacking the man in the face and twisting his head to the side, snapping his neck like a twig in the process.

"I got plenty for all of you!" he yelled angrily, firing his rifle yet again in tight bursts. A zombified fireman went sprawling backwards, half his face missing, along with a red-headed female still wearing her pink nightgown. A teenage girl only wearing her bright red underwear fell as well, but there were countless more undead freaks ready to take their places, stumbling forward over their fallen cohorts, desperate to get at him.

He backed away slowly, trying to keep the whole crowd within his view point at all times, to stop any of them from getting the drop on him. He turned his head briefly, to see he was within 10 feet of a parked sedan, a few zombies lingering beside it, seemingly fascinated by the vehicles gold paintwork, so much so that they hadn't noticed him standing there yet. Seeing an opportunity, Robert turned and sprinted towards them, waiting until he was right behind the first zombie before he reacted, before he shoulder-barged the monster roughly from behind. The monster fell without any resistance, smacking the front of its head against the tarmac and shattering its skull open like an egg. The second zombie, a black-haired man in a light blue collared shirt, turned round to face him, just as the sniper put a 3-round burst through his face, sending him sprawling backwards, arms flailing.

The third and final zombie, another male, this one with light brown hair and with one of its arms missing, growled like a rabid beast and lunged for him, but Robert easily side-stepped the gnashing teeth, before grabbing onto the man's shoulders and swinging him around, directing his face into the driver's side window. The glass shattered into countless pieces, and the zombie slumped dead, blood streaming out from its lacerated face and neck. He let the stinking monster fall to the ground, as he turned to face the crowd that was rapidly approaching him for a brief moment, before hefting himself up onto the roof of the car, facing the zombies down.

He ripped a second grenade from his vest, priming it and tossing it away into the horde. After a few seconds, there was the crump of the frag going off, another blossom of flame, and more bodies were thrown up into the air, and a good number of zombies were thrown off of their feet by the blast wave as well. He opened up on the ones struggling to get to their feet, splattering more than a few skulls as the empty shell cartridges went spinning away from the rifle.

"Yeah, you'll have to work for your meal!" he yelled, laughing as well, as he fired off the last few shots in the current magazine, before he reached for a fresh magazine. He was about to dump the empty mag though when he felt something grab onto his ankle, and before he could react he felt himself yanked off of his feet, his M4 going one way and his fresh magazine going the other.

He landed on his side, the wind knocked from his lungs and denting the car roof in the process. He barely took enough time to catch his breath before he looked behind him, to see another bloody, gaping maw with blank eyes taking a hold of his leg, the fingernails sinking into his flesh. The creature tried to move its mouth down to take a bite, but Robert ripped his leg free, the creature being left with a handful of torn cloth instead. The zombie reached for him again, but he ripped his Beretta free from its holster and fired three times.

The zombie shuddered and fell back, three smoking holes blown through its torso and forehead. Robert cursed silently and examined his shredded pants leg, seeing that his skin was relatively unbroken, but he could see a few traces of red from where the zombie's nails had broken the top layer of his skin.

_Dammit…_

He heard the moaning in his ear and rolled off of the car as quickly as he could manage. As he touched down, the pain flared through his ribs, but sheer adrenaline kept him going within this intense period. He saw the line of zombies on the other side of the car, and he swore loudly, his eyes frantically scanning the ground for his main form of defence. He saw the weapon's stock sticking out from behind the car's rear wheel, and he went down for it on his hands and knees, dragging it away just as a female zombie made a leap for him, falling flat on her face. He slammed a fresh magazine into the weapon, making no attempt to look for the other mag he had dropped before, as it was probably trapped under the feet of several zombies now.

He coughed a few times, the pain in his ribs becoming even more pronounced. But he couldn't let that distract him from immediate matters, and he focused back on the zombie horde before him, some of the figures blurring in and out of focus, but the stench of decay remained. He fired off a few more bursts, a few zombies falling, but less than last time. He was starting to stray off of the perfect headshots, striking them in the torso more often that not. That fall and the general lack of rest recently had affected him worse than he initially thought, and he should really be resting up in a hospital right about now. But he couldn't really afford that luxury right about now.

He turned his head, seeing he was within 20 feet of the tanker now, where a small group of nearby zombies crouched around a fallen corpse, helping themselves to that easy meal, while several more stood around dumbly like statues. But they started to stir to life as they heard the footsteps approaching, moving around to face the source of the commotion. The first one Robert saw was a hefty-middle aged woman in a pink dress, her brown curly hair matted with chunks of meat and blood, her gaping mouth missing several of her teeth as well. He raised his rifle and snapped off a single shot. She went sprawling to the ground, half her skull missing and trailing blood and gore.

The other zombies spurred into life, as though the moaning chorus of the great horde following after Robert activated them from some unknown slumber. As they closed in on him, he turned and fired in sequence, dropping them each with a single shot. He had dropped at least half a dozen before a teenage boy wearing a blue polo shirt made a half-hearted dash straight at him, bearing his teeth. Robert let his rifle hang loose before tearing his Beretta free and putting a shot right through the boy's left eye, smacking him off of his feet and causing him to land in a heap on the tarmac. He passed by the corpses, still firing as he went, until the handgun clicked on empty, and he reached for a fresh clip to reload. His vision had cleared somewhat, allowing him to make precise kills now.

He turned back towards the zombie crowd pursuing him, as they started to move around the golden sedan he had just passed by shortly beforehand. He reached up for another grenade to throw, and he primed it for a few seconds, before stooping down and rolling it low across the ground, sending it between the feet of the first zombie, where it came to a rest just underneath the vehicle.

BOOM!

The explosion ignited the car's fuel tank and lifted it up into the air, vaporizing a couple dozen zombies and smothering several more in blazing gasoline. Then the burning wreck came down and crushed at least another ten shambling undead, sending out a wave of intense heat that nearly knocked Robert from his feet. The sniper looked up at the new blaze that was starting to slowly cover that side of the tarmac, buying him a little more time at least, though some of the horde stills marched on, their legs and lower bodies erupting into flame. But they kept on walking, until the flames finally consumed their bodies and they crumpled to the ground. He still had one frag grenade left, but he had a special purpose in mind for it, and he had to hold onto it as though his life depended on it.

He turned towards the fuel tanker yet again, seeing he was nearly there, but now what seemed like another two dozen zombies were starting to emerge from around the rear end of the truck, in danger of surrounding him and cutting him off. He only regarded them for a few seconds, before he made a dash for the relative safety of the truck's cab. He got within 5 feet when a male zombie in the dirty grey overalls of Raccoon's utility services rounded the vehicle, coming straight at him, its eyes gleaming with some kind of manic glee. Robert skidded to a halt, eyes wide, before he managed to react, ducking down and sweeping the man's legs out from beneath him with a low kick, sending him crashing to the tarmac. Then just as quickly, Robert dragged his combat knife free and stabbed it down like a sword, through the man's forehead.

He pulled his blade free in a spurt of red fluid, and then dragged himself to his feet, in time to see another gaggle of zombies approaching from the front, emerging from the shattered remnants of a corner shop.

"Can't get no damn peace," he growled, swinging his M4A1 round to face the monsters. He squeezed down again, firing off more red-hot rounds into the advancing monsters. Several of them fell immediately, but then one moving a lot quicker suddenly burst free from the group, charging straight for him. He saw the blood-red skin and the sharpened claws on its hands, and he realised he was in trouble then and there.

_A crimson head…perfect!_

He tried to swing his rifle up, but the monster lunged right at him, swinging its calws down, and the sniper had to draw back to avoid having his face sliced off. He felt the breeze of the creature's attack brush down his face, but the claws still caught on his assault rifle, dragging it from his grasp and sending it clattering to the ground. The sniper stumbled back in surprise and the crimson head moved forward, blocking his route towards the rifle. He had to draw his Beretta again, firing 5 shots into the super zombie's torso, only enough to force it to stagger backwards a few steps, growling like a rabid beast as it did, but it gave him time to line up that vital headshot, just as it lunged for him again.

BANG!

The 9mm punched through the monster's face, but its forward momentum carried it forward, and its body slammed into Robert, bringing them both down. Robert cried out in pain as they hit the ground, as the recent pain from falling on the car returned to him twice as bad as before.

Biting back bellows of pain, the sniper shoved the corpse off of him boldly, and then started to drag himself to his feet, each mere motion feeling as though it was taking a herculean effort, everything else around him starting to blur out from view, the pain in his chest and stomach feeling as he'd swallowed a mouthful of broken glass. By the time he was standing on his feet, he felt as though he was going to pass out, barely able to keep his eyes open.

As his vision swirled about, he could hear the sound of his own harsh breathing magnified within his ears, and everything else around him, including the shuffling of countless feet closing in on him, and the empty groans in front and behind him, even the crackling of nearby flames. His whole body felt light as a father, as though he were on some drug trip, but things were more serious than that. He wasn't an expect on the human anatomy, but due to the intense internal pain, he guessed that he broke something falling on that car, a rib probably, and now that broken bone had probably lanced one or more of his organs, and he would bleed to death soon if he didn't get urgent medical treatment.

In short, he would be dead soon. But he couldn't give up just yet.

He felt the cold fingers touch his shoulder, and his vision sharpened up instantly, in time to see the rotting face with blank eyes right in front of him. Before it could move forward and take a bite, Robert reached out, grabbing a hold of the sides of its head and twisting, snapping its neck and sending the poor zombie spinning to the ground.

He drew his Beretta handgun instantly, then reached for the Browning HP holstered at his back, and twisted to face the zombie group approaching from behind, blazing away with both guns. Zombies shuddered and collapsed to the tarmac, gaping holes blown through their faces, but there were always more ready to plug in the gaps torn into their front line. Robert backed away slowly as they continued to approach, but he kept on firing, the small orange bursts of gunfire burning into his corneas.

_Click. Click. Click._

The Browning ran dry and he tossed it aside with an annoyed growl, before letting off the last few shots in his current Beretta magazine until that was empty too. He didn't even bother to reload, he just turned away towards the still-open passenger's door of the truck cab, taking a hold of the handle and pulling himself up and into the cab itself. His body screamed in protest, but the sheer adrenaline numbed the pain somewhat as he sat himself down on the soft interior seat. A blonde-haired man in a dress suit and missing one of his ears tried to grab onto the seat and pull himself in, but Robert slammed the door shut, crushing the man's fingers with a satisfying crunch of bone.

Robert finally breathed out and shut his eyes, rubbing his face tiredly with his hands. Inside, within the temporary sanctuary, he could still hear the somewhat muted moans of the undead outside, as they started to surround the vehicle he was now trapped in. He could hear the dull _thumps _of their bloody hands beating against the doors too, gently rocking the cab, trying to get in at him. And the cab interior was stifling hot as well, due to the nearby blaze. But he was safe for the time being.

He moved his hands down and suddenly winced in pain, as he felt the waves of agony return to his body. Gritting his teeth, he pulled up his shirt, and saw the ugly black bruise that was creeping across the left side of his ribcage. So that proved he was bleeding internally, and quite badly at that: and when that crimson head had fallen on him before that would only have agitated matters. How he had made it this far without dropping dead was a miracle. He dropped his shirt back down, wishing that he had some morphine or other type of painkiller with him, but he wasn't that lucky. How could he ever be that lucky?

Then he heard the dry groan right next to him, and his blood ran cold, his head turning slowly to see the corpse of the truck driver slumped next to him, his blue plaid shirt stained with droplets of blood from where he had been thrown forward and smacked his head against the dashboard, his pallid face and red beard dotted with crimson fluid as well. Then the man's eyes snapped open, and they were snow white.

_Oh fuck-_

Robert went for his Beretta, then realised it was still empty, and went for his knife instead. The split-second hesitation forced the trucker zombie into action, and the monster suddenly sat up and lunged for him with unusual speed.

Robert pulled his knife free and slammed the sharp side of his blade through the man's throat and slashed back through to his spinal cord, severing it. But the man's open mouth kept moving, and his teeth dug themselves into Robert's left shoulder, deep enough to draw blood. The sniper howled in agony and pushed the dead monster away from him, thick blood spraying over the dashboard and spider-webbed windscreen as the zombie flew back and came to a rest of the driver's seat.

"Son of a bitch!" the U.B.C.S sniper yelled, looking down at the ripped cloth covering his left shoulder. Already he could see the beads of blood starting to form on the surface of his skin. So in addition to bleeding to death, he could look forward to turning into a zombie as well.

_Not today! Not now! _His mind screamed, as he turned his body round to face the closed door he had just entered through. Then he lay on his back, raised his legs, and kicked out, putting the window out and sending glass shards raining down on the zombie's just outside.

Then he moaning of the zombies outside returned to full volume. He kicked a few more times, removing the shards of glass from the lower window. Then he lay on his back for several seconds, trying to catch his breath, before he wrenched himself into an upright position, moving towards the now clear window.

He pulled himself out of the truck cab, planting his feet on the lower window frame and then reaching up for the cab's roof. Below, dozens of arms reached out for him, pawing pathetically as his boots dangled just out of their reach. He glanced back down, looking into the collection of pale, monstrous faces below him, wondering how each of these people had their own unique personality before this whole mess, but now reduced to horrific figures of their past selves thanks to the good people of Umbrella Inc. The crowd was several rows deep now, and looking down the street he could see the bodies of the ones he had killed beforehand, but he guessed there was at least 300 still left, clamouring round the lone truck for any chance of a meal.

He turned away from them, hefting himself up onto the cab's roof, the pain of his injuries stinging at him even more, but he was too close to give up now.

He had no way to defend himself either: his M4 rifle was down on the street somewhere, underneath countless zombie feet and out of reach, while he had left his Beretta an his blood-stained combat knife back in the truck cab during his desperate scramble to get up here. And he still had one lone hand grenade left, but he wasn't going to just waste that taking out just a few dozen zombies, not when he was sitting on top of the biggest impromptu bomb he could get a hold of right now.

He moved from the cab on top of the big tank itself, losing his footing and slipping as he took the first few steps, but he put his arms out in time to stop him smacking his face against the steel. He howled in pain as his wounds flared up yet again. The zombies below seemed to pick up on his pain and started to clamour around more, pushing and reaching out, but still out of reach, but a few of them gathered round the trail of thick blood drops that ran down the side of the tanker. Robert looked down at the crowd beneath him, his vision starting to blur up again, but somehow he kept his concentration, dragging himself forward the last few feet.

He was at the main filling point for the tanker itself, a great steel channel that was covered by a steel covering, and he could detect the faint whiff of gasoline within. Grabbing a hold of the covering, he clenched his teeth and pulled, tearing it free and sending it clattering down into the zombie horde below. Then the unmistaken smell of the gasoline smacked him hard in the face, and he could even see the distortion of the air just above the gaping black hole. He could even the gentle sloshing of the fuel inside the tanker, as the zombies beat against the side.

He had his explosive, now he just needed the fuse.

He tore the last grenade he had free from his tactical vest, and looped his finger through the grenade's pin, readying himself for what would transpire next. The zombies continued their ceaseless moaning, oblivious to what would become of them. The sniper started a mental countdown from 5.

_Five….four…_

He never knew his life would end here, but he supposed every life's journey was never just a straight line from A to B. But he regretted nothing now, not his father's death, not his joining the army, not Sergeant Jones' murder, not his agreement to Sergei's offer, not even the deaths of all his comrades: none of it. Because his next action would be for them all.

…_Three…two…_

It would be for all of them, his last act of defiance against the cruel world that had seemed stacked against him right from the start. The same world that had eventually dropped him into this hell hole and spat in his face into the bargain.

…_one!_

He ripped the pin from the grenade and dunked it straight down the channel, hearing the audible 'plop' of it landing in the fluid. He continued to hang onto the filling point, his left arm starting to hang lifelessly at his side as the wound continued to take its toll. He could taste the blood in his mouth as well, and knew he was very close to the end now. But at least his end would be on his own terms.

The zombies continued moaning, and he'd heard enough. But now he'd be free from their baying calls forever.

He threw his head back and let out a scream of sheer rage and frustration, his cry echoing up and down the entire length of main street, and could be heard a couple of blocks away. He let it all out, all the anger and hopelessness of his ending up here, of everything that had transpired before. His whole life leading up to this point had been an uphill struggle, but now he would get some respite.

There was an impossibly bright flash of white light that engulfed everything.

* * *

The Blackhawk hovered over one of the junctions of southern Raccoon City, Corporal Parkman scanning the rooftops for any sign of life. Previously, many survivors they had picked up had taken refuge on the roofs, but now he could see no sign of anyone, just the zombies that wandered the streets below. Even one of the larger warehouses he had seen before, previously on fire, had now totally burned to the ground, reduced to a pile of smoking debris. He signed in frustration and leaned back inside the chopper.

"Any luck?" yelled Kirk from the cockpit.

"No!" shouted Mike back angrily. "I don't even know why we're wasting fuel being out here, there's probably no-one left to save!"

"Well we have our orders," replied Kirk, "and frankly I don't want my perfect track record being blemished just because we wanted to save fuel!"

"You know what Kirk?" laughed Mike. "You're absolutely no fun at all, you know that?" Kirk opened his mouth to say something else when he was cut off in the most spectacular fashion.

KA-BOOOOOOMMM!!!

A massive explosion suddenly ripped through the air, and the entire chopper crew nearly jumped out of their skins. Even Kirk was taken by surprise, and he had to wrench the chopper around quickly so they didn't suddenly do a nosedive to the ground.

"Fuck! What was that?!" wailed one of the chopper gunners, looking about nervously. "We under attack?!"

"Can it!" ordered Mike, looking out the side hatch to see what looked like a geyser of flame rising up from somewhere near the centre of town. "Over there!" he then yelled, pointing the unusual sight out to the rest of the crew.

"I'm on it, hold on!" responded Kirk, bringing the chopper round and heading straight for the burst of fire in the distance. Within a couple of minutes, they were hovering over Main Street, once the vibrant centre of downtown Raccoon City, but now it had been gutted by numerous blazing fires and car wrecks during the incident. Mike and one of the gunners peeked out, looking down at the area of street where the explosion had come from, the helicopter blades blowing away the copious amounts of smoke that billowed up.

"Oh Jesus…" muttered the gunner.

The street below was marked with a considerable crater in the tarmac, at least 8 feet deep and 20 feet across, mangled steel and other wreckage still burning within the hole. And around the crater…were corpses, loads of corpses. Mike guessed there must have been nearly 300 bodies down there, many of them blown into bloody chunks as though they'd been thrown into a wood chipper. Most of them seemed to be burning as well, large pools of flame circling the scene, the stench of burnt flesh stinging at the soldier's nostrils. On the outskirts of the street, a few lone zombies loitered, clearly out of effective range for when the blast went off.

"What the hell happened here?" crackled Kirk's voice over the comm link.

Mike sniffed a few times, and aside from the aroma of burnt flesh, he also picked up a hint of gasoline, and made a good guess. "You smell that? Gasoline. Maybe there was a fuel tanker parked here that exploded."

"Exploded?" asked Kirk, surprised. "Who the hell would do that? Especially when the city is falling apart as it is now?"

"I don't know," answered Mike, feeling the intense heat below prickling at his face. "Someone really desperate, most likely. But otherwise there's nothing else here, we should move on."

* * *

Robert Devlan opened his eyes and saw nothing but bright white all around him. He couldn't feel his injuries anymore, which was a blessed relief. But his journey was meant to be over, so now where was he? He tried to turn his head to look around him, but he couldn't move: he was rooted to the spot. He tried to call out, but his throat was dry, and he couldn't form the words.

Then a figure started to materlise in front of him: a tall man, in his mid thirties he guessed, dressed in the black dress pants and light brown shirt of a county sheriff. Realisation started to dawn on him, and he felt his whole body starting to contract, begging to be put of his misery. Despite the man's general shape coming into focus, his face remained blurry and indistinct.

Then more figures started to come into focus, standing on either side of the first figure. They materialised faster than he had, and most of them were easily recognisable too: all of them were dressed in the standard uniform of the U.B.C.S, but none of them carried any form of weapon. Their faces started to come into view one by one as well: Mac, Daniels, Benson, Joel, Hodges, Brass, practically everyone he knew well from Delta Platoon-

-even Lieutenant Nicholas Johnson himself, his green beret present upon his head, his face stern and passive as he regarded Robert with the rest of his troops.

"Guys," he whispered, but then the face of the man at the front of the group came into focus, and Robert was lost for words. He stared in silence, before a lone tear rolled down his cheek. "Is that…?"

"It's OK, Robbie," smiled Adam Devlan. "It's all over now. You can rest easy, son. You did well."

Robert averted his gaze, biting down on his lip, before the tears flowed forth. "I'm sorry dad," he sobbed. "I wanted to be something more, I wanted to do something in your memory, and grandad's memory...but if I knew this is where I would end up, I wouldn't have bothered. I'm so sorry dad, I'm such a fuck up-"

"It's OK son," replied his father, and instantly Robert felt a calming influence descend over him. "I don't hate you for what you've done. You've protected so many people with what you and your friends have done, that's something to be proud of. I'm glad that you're my son Robbie...I may not have been there for all your life, but I'm glad with all I did."

Robert was never more relieved in his whole life. Breathing out, he closed his eyes, and everything started to fade to black.

He had finally found the peace he had craved for so long.

**A/N: WHEW. Now that's out the way, time for me to mention a few things.**

**1. This is probably the biggest chapter I've ever written for this story so far (300+ kb in all), which is one of the reasons why it took so long for it to come out, well that and a few other reasons. And the part in the church is clearly inspired by the same scene from Resident Evil: Apocalypse, but I don't care either way.  
**

**2. Been playing quite a few new games over the last 6 odd months as well. Dead Space, in particular, is a survival horror game set in space, and I highly recommend it, as the atmosphere, visceral combat and immersion within the game universe are all first class. I've also played Prototype, which is also pretty good, and rather gory as well (especially when you can kill 20+ people with a few whipfist attacks).**

**And then finally and most recently, there's Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2. As anyone who played the original game will tell you, the online multiplayer in this game is simply one of the best gaming experiences around: fast to get into it, satisfying, and addictive into the bargain as well. So if my updates are slow to come in the future, you know why. :P**

**3. And it will be 2010 shortly as well. Personally, I can't wait to get this year over with, considering some of the harsh things that have happened recently (some of you probably know what I'm referring to). But either way, that's just me. Whatever happens, I hope you all have a good Christmas and a Happy New Year as well. My next updates for this story (and others) won't be till the new year at least, just to make you aware.  
**

**But that's enough from me for the time being. As usual, R+R please!**


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25: End of an Era

**September 29****th**** 0635 hours**

Director Daniel Lindeman smoothed down the front of his expensive suit jacket, and gave his dark tie a quick readjustment, examining his appearance in the full-length mirror before him. His hair was freshly washed and his beard was freshly trimmed as well, but the bags under his tired eyes showed the fact he hadn't been getting much sleep lately, what with everything that had been going on.

Raccoon City had been sealed off from the outside world for over 3 days now, and although the military was keeping the perimeter sealed off from the outside world for the time being, people were starting to ask questions, and the story was on practically every news station in the country. That and the danger that the military could come into contact with the B. still wandering the forest. Though both variables were a major concern to them, of greater concern was the fact that if the virus was able to spread outside of the city a world-wide outbreak could be on the cards, destroying everything they had achieved: everything he had worked for.

He had devoted the last 40 years of his life to the company, starting as a lowly administrative head, and then working himself up to head of research at the New York facility. After 10 years in that post, he finally caught the attention of Lord Spencer himself, and found himself appointed to director of the overall facility, and with it, a place on the Board of Directors himself. If he were to lose that place, where would he go from there? Nowhere, he reckoned, except the retirement home. And that was no way for one of Umbrella's finest to spend their dying days.

Though he felt sickened by Spencer's disregard for the incredible loss of life suffered in Raccoon, he couldn't let himself focus on that disgust too much. After his confrontation with the CEO, he was almost certain he would have someone watching him from now on, checking to see that he stayed in line. Yet he was confident that he was safe within his penthouse, one of the most secure places within the whole city: the exact reason why he had chosen it in the first place.

He stepped out onto the open balcony, breathing in the morning air deeply. He looked out across the countless rooftops before him, and in the near distance he saw the imposing spectacle of Marcus Tower, the company's base of operations in New York, and Lindeman's own headquarters, which he had gladly loaned to the Board for use of their crisis talks. He knew most of them were gathering now, planning to go ahead without him, but he didn't care: he had other things to worry about.

He took out a cell phone from his jacket pocket and keyed in a number, lifting the phone to his ear. He heard the ring tone for several long seconds, but he waited patiently. It was almost a minute before he finally heard the voice on the other side.

"Hello?"

"It's me," said Lindeman, skipping the pleasantries.

"Ah, Mr Lindeman," replied his contact. "I trust all is well with the Board?"

"Don't ask," snapped the New York director. "Spencer is going to run us into the ground if he keeps at the rate he's going. The old fool…"

"So you've told me before," laughed the contact lightly. "Trust me, they all know Spencer's got more than a few screws loose-"

"And yet they still follow him obediently, like the dogs fetching a stick thrown by their master," noted Lindeman. "They're either stupid, of they're too scared of him setting his hound on them."

"You mean Sergei?" asked the contact, before he started to laugh loudly for several seconds. "That damned Russian…he's got a few screws loose as well: he and Spencer were made for each other! No wonder the old man was so keen to take him on board…"

"While your opinion fascinates me," said Lindeman, annoyance creeping into his voice, "it doesn't help to alleviate our current situation much. I trust you already know of what happened at the checkpoint?"

The contact scoffed loudly, ignoring the insult he had just received. "Greene? He was a reprobate, a scumbag who couldn't handle his damned addiction: he wasn't prepared for something like this-"

"Again, I didn't call for your opinion," snapped Lindeman, getting back to the point. "I contacted him because he was a desperate man, and desperate men are exactly what I need for situations like this. Now what's going on down there exactly?"

"Exactly as you'd expect," was the reply, ignoring the rather prickly response from before. Clearly, this guy was used to being treated like dirt. "We have press and reporters up the ass, and everyone else is on edge, as you might imagine."

"So do you think you'd be able to do something?"

"You're joking, right?!" replied the voice on the other end of the line. "There is no chance in hell that I can do anything about your little problem right now! Pretty much every move's being caught in camera and beamed out to the country, so I couldn't even step on a snail without someone seeing it."

"OK, OK," said the director, trying to defuse his contact's prickly mood. "Then just keep a low profile for the time being: if anything happens, then let me know. I may not answer straight away, as you know…"

"Those crisis talks get pretty boring, eh?" said the contact sarcastically. "So what does this mean for Raccoon City?"

"Let us worry about that," shot back Lindeman, the queasy feeling returning at the thought of total decontamination measures being used against one of their own cities.

"Hey, I'm on the front line here, so I need to know all the details," replied the contact. "I don't want anymore nasty surprises-"

"You've never complained about being kept in the dark," growled Lindeman threateningly, his patience wearing thin, "so why do you start now? Just do what I'm paying you to do!"

There was an uncomfortable silence from the other end, before being followed by a long sigh and a single word reply. "Fine."

_Click._

Lindeman looked at his phone display, which simply read 'Call ended'. The director sighed and put his phone away, before running a hand through his hair again and then finally turned and stepping back inside his penthouse, sliding the door closed shut behind him.

* * *

Malcolm Donovan checked over the case once more, making sure that all of the daylight samples were still intact, along with the two injector guns. His P8 handgun lay on its side too, along with the single spare magazine he still had for the small-size handgun. Far as he was concerned, he had everything he needed. And he couldn't carry much else on him either.

He looked over at the screens again. Little moved on the dozens of tiny images, aside from the odd zombie or some other biological horror that wandered the empty halls. He guessed that he was probably the only one still left alive within the facility, aside from those two Umbrella assassins obviously, but they still couldn't get to him, for the time being. Which is why he had chosen to move out of his office, to find some other safe place to hole up.

Besides, Becket's corpse was starting to stink. He crinkled his nose and resisted the urge to throw up.

It was dangerous to leave the sanctity of his office, granted, but he was still within the Maximum Security area, which meant he still had some time left before they would figure out a way to get to him: more time that a B.O.W could kill them both, getting rid of both headaches in one fell swoop. And the area was relatively free of any other threats too, as he had activated the lockdown the day before as well, which sealed off every single lab and work place within the sector to make it practically impenetrable. Any zombies created when the virus spread would be sealed away from him hopefully.

He snapped the case shut and picked it up in his left hand, before grabbing for his handgun and tucking it down within his belt, for easy access if needed. Then finally, he picked up the master key from the desk top in his right hand, before dropping it inside of his upper coat pocket. He checked over his office one more time, making sure he had everything he needed, then he made his way towards the door, carefully skirting around Becket's body, and the lake of blood surrounding it.

He stopped at the door, watching back over his office, filled with the many memories and reminders of his past. It would be painful to leave it all behind, after doing so much for the company, but his life was more important right now, and it wasn't the first time he had sacrificed something for the greater good. He removed the master key from his pocket and pushed it into the lock on the door, turning it and licking it open. He pushed through, letting it swing shut behind him. Then he turned round and nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the creaky groans greet him.

He gasped and stepped back in shock as a pair of zombified security guards came for him, still in their standard black uniforms. Strangely, neither of them were wounded or marked in any way, unlike the other zombies he had seen so far, though the deathly white skin tone and blank eyes still freaked him out. Then he realised that these were the two guards who had accompanied Becket here in the first place, and they had been banging on the door from outside after he had shot the captain dead. Presumably locked in here when the lockdown was activated, they had succumbed to the virus anyway and turned. Both of them still had their AK-47 rifles slung over their shoulders as well.

Donovan quickly raised his arm towards the nearest zombie, setting his sights over the middle of its face.

BANG!

He buried a shot through its left eye, and the monster crumpled to the floor without another sound. It didn't deter its companion though, who continued to approach in its shambling gait. The supervisor switched his aim and fired again, the bullet smacking into the man's mouth and tearing off his lower jaw in a hail of gory fragments. The zombie shuddered for a brief second, and then started approaching again, blood still pouring from where its lower jaw should have been. Cursing, he changed his aim and fired again, putting a perfect shot between the zombie's eyes. It crumpled like a piece of paper.

As silence descended once again, the supervisor breathed out in relief. He then looked round quickly, but the area was completely bare of any other threats. Looking back and forth again, he headed off, making his way deeper into the facility, but leaving the door to his office unlocked and wide open.

* * *

Dean Travers slowly opened his eyes, staring up at the plain steel ceiling directly above him. He blinked a few times to clear his eyes, and then he rubbed them tiredly and stretched his arms above his head. The cot he had slept on was highly uncomfortable, obviously designed for people only sleeping for the night, or for several hours at least, but at least it was better than nothing.

"Allright?" asked Ben Campbell, sat on a plain wooden seat just opposite the door, Dean's shotgun laid out across his lap.

"I've had better nights sleep," moaned Dean, sitting up and rubbing his eyes a few more times.

"Well at least it's better than nothing," replied Ben, looking away towards the door. "Trust me, when this is all over I'll book us into a nice luxury hotel, all the trimmings: on the house."

"That's very kind of you Ben," laughed Dean, "but when we get out of here, my old bed back home would be preferable to any hotel bed."

They had taken refuge in one of the abandoned dorms on the east side of the facility, after finishing their sweep of the western side, and finding nothing else of worth. Considering that the place was infested with zombies and other biological nightmares, taking a nap would be considered almost suicidal. But both men were dead on their feet from sheer fatigue, and if they had kept going then who knew if they would drop on their feet. So they took turns in having a few hours rest, while the other sat watch. They had even been able to lock the door using the Level 5 keycard they had found up on the surface, but it wouldn't hurt to play if safe. The encounter with those skinless tongue-monsters had rattled them both considerably, and both kept their eyes glued to the ceiling vents just in case. Luckily, there were no vents within this particular dorm room.

"Sounds good," laughed Ben, standing up at the same time Dean did, passing the shotgun back to his friend. "That's something else for me to look forward to when we get out of here."

"That's the spirit," said Dean, gladly taking his shotgun back and checking the tube magazine briefly. "Anything happening out there?"

"Nothing," answered Ben flatly, rubbing the back of his head. "No sounds, no voices: nothing. Looks as though this place has been forgotten."

"Lucky for us," said Dean. "But we still need to find a way out to that train platform…and we need to find a cure for the virus too."

Ben's expression darkened. He may have felt blessed at the fact that the two of them were able to get some peace and some rest in this place, but while they rested that damned virus was still coursing through their bodies, working on turning them into mindless monsters. According to the late U.B.C.S members, they still had plenty of time before turning, but when exactly they didn't know. It could be within a week, it could be within a few days….or it could be within the next few hours.

"Ben?"

Ben glanced up to see his friend's concerned features. "You feeling OK?"

"Oh, yeah I am," Ben said quickly, grinning slightly, seemingly a little forced. "It's just I feel as though we could turn into one of those damned zombies anytime."

"That's not gonna happen," said Dean firmly, passing Ben a small white pill, an anti-virus pill they had both been carrying around recently, and which would slow down the infection rate of the virus…for the time being at least. "Here, go ahead and take it."

"But what about you-"

"I've already taken one, don't worry about me," answered Dean flatly. "Now stop whining and go ahead and take it." Ben hesitated for a few seconds, looking between Dean and the pill, before finally taking it and swallowing it down in an instant. He then nodded after a few more seconds.

"Good to go," he said.

"Then let's get the hell outta dodge."

The door slid open and the two of them stepped out, glancing to and fro down each path of the corridor, searching for any potential threats. When they were satisfied the coast was clear, they headed off, walking down the corridor up towards a large junction at the far end, where a large mound of corpses was laying, along with a ridiculous amount of blood and gore, and shell casings.

Apparently the fiercest fighting happened within this part of the facility, as at least 5 slain security guards were lying on top of one another, dead where they had fought to the death. They also seemed better-equiped than the other security personnel seen so far, as all of them were clothed in Kevlar armour that covered most of their bodies, including visored-helmets that covered their faces: to Ben, they seemed to resemble riot police than security guards. They also seemed to be much better armed, as empty weapons lay abandoned all around them; mainly AK and M4 assault rifles, and even a few Benelli M1014 semi-automatic shotguns.

Also in the area was a large pile of zombie corpses, many of them with their heads blown off or with their torsos blasted open. There were a few other B.O.W's among the pile too, mainly Hunters, and a couple of those skinless monsters with the long tongues as well. Despite having all that firepower, those guards were still overwhelmed and killed, and judging by the deep crimson gouge marks covering their bodies, it was by either of those two monster types.

"They fought well, either way," noted Ben, checking a Benelli shotgun over to see if it was loaded, but failing and tossing the empty weapon aside instead.

"And it still wasn't enough," replied Dean, shaking his head. "We need to take things more slowly now, or we'll be joining them soon."

"Amen to that, brother," replied Ben, peering towards a heavy-looking steel door just a few feet to where they were stood. The words 'Aqua Tank' were imprinted on the door in large black letters, and he also saw that there seemed to be a shallow puddle of water just on the floor outside the door. He looked down at it curiously.

_Why would they have an aqua tank down here?_

He approached the door, his shoes skipping at the puddle as he stopped before the door, before taking a hold of the large handle and tugging. Nothing happened, and the door seemed to be stuck tight. Then he pulled again, putting much more force behind his efforts, and the door came open with a loud groaning of steel, and then he heard the wet sloshing sound as some more water came issuing out, lapping around his ankles and lower legs, making him step back in surprise. The water only spread out a small distance before it was gone, sinking into the grilled flooring and away from sight.

"Hey, what's that?" asked Dean as drops of water lapped at his feet, and he stepped back in surprise, looking down. Ben ignored him though as he peered round the door, and then finally stepped through, instantly feeling a cold chill hit him in the face.

The room was huge, around 30 feet in diameter, forming a rough circular shape, and nearly 60 feet deep he guessed, most of the space just filled with dark, murky water, that reached up to the steel catwalk where he was currently stood, the water lapping against his feet. He peered across the room, and saw what seemed to be a control room just across the way, the reinforced glass windows placed underneath the water surface broken through by something or other. But by what exactly, he still couldn't tell. He peered down into the water curiously, trying to discern the dark shapes that moved to and fro, but he couldn't pick the exact details out. He could smell copper as well, on the air, even on his tongue.

Then one of the shapes suddenly swam close by to him, on the surface, and he saw the dark grey fin slicing through the surface, leaving a wake of water a sit went.

It was a shark. A Great White, more likely, based on its colouration; dark grey on top, with a pure white belly. It was only a small one, about 7 foot long at the most, but it was still larger than him, and it had a mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth. And then it turned and disappeared down into the depths. He watched it disappear down, and he discerned a second shark, larger than the first one, and with several fleshy chunks ripped out of its dorsal fin and side.

Then a hand slapped on his shoulder and he nearly jumped out his skin as he turned to look into Dean's concerned face.

"Woah, just take it easy, its me," he said, and then looked past into the aqua tank, glancing around in wonder. "Didn't think they'd have something like this down here," he then observed, peering out to look into the dark depths.

"Careful," said Ben, motioning for Dean to step back from the edge, just as the larger shark came up towards them, breaking the water surface and sending out several large ripples, before diving down again. Dean looked genuinely shocked as the huge beast disappeared down again.

"Sharks?" he asked. "What were Umbrella thinking, working on some of those?"

"Do they ever think?" asked Ben in reply, just as soon as he saw a severed leg floating atop of the water on the far side of the aqua tank, crimson blood staining the dank water around it as well. Ben's face dropped when he saw it bobbing there.

"Come on, let's go," said Dean, pulling him back gently, watching the water carefully, as the bigger shark came back to the surface, bearing a mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth, stained with blood. Then it disappeared as quickly as it came, silently too.

"Yeah," agreed Ben, and the two of them quietly retreated back through the door behind them, pushing it shut as quickly as they could. The steel groaned as the door was pushed back into its frame.

* * *

The Blackhawk touched down, its rotors throwing up a considerable cloud of dust, and the weary soldiers on perimeter duty glanced up, and covering their faces as their clothes and equipment was rustled by the breeze. The chopper had barely rested down when Colonel Adams leapt out, his feet kissing the ground as he strode towards the command tent barely 30 feet away, a pair of foot soldiers following after him.

The flaps of the tent parted ad Gordon Fletcher stepped out, his face pale and drawn from the general exhaustion. When he saw Colonel Adams approaching, he felt the heavy weight form in his stomach again.

_Great…just what I need…_

He managed a firm salute as Adams stopped just before him, closely followed by his bodyguards.

"Colonel," the Lieutenant said, though the enthusiasm in his voice had long since deserted him. Colonel Adams took a deep breath and ran a hand through his receding hair, but otherwise his face was passive, so Fletcher couldn't tell whether he was still pissed off about the whole mess with Tobias, or something else.

"Lieutenant, let's talk in some more private conditions," said the Colonel, flatly. Fletcher only nodded in confirmation and lead the way back towards the command tent, followed by the Colonel's men. Just before they disappeared inside, the senior officer turned to his men and motioned for them to remain outside.

Inside, Lieutenant Fletcher sat himself down on his fold-out chair, as the Colonel glanced over the latest stack of reports from various units within their regiment. "So Colonel," asked Fletcher in a partly sarcastic manner, "what brings you out to the front?"

"Any word on the mess with Corporal Greene?" asked the Colonel, to-the-point. Fletcher expected that question, and he took a breath before he gave his reply.

"Not much," he said initially, "but it was common knowledge on the grounds that Tobias had a pretty serious gambling addiction. Some of us had bailed him out on more than one occasion…but still he couldn't pull himself out of that hole."

"So you're suggesting someone was manipulating him?" asked the Colonel, intrigued.

"Trust me, Tobias probably had some very big debts built up, owed some very nasty people a lot of money," replied Fletcher, tossing a plain-looking cell phone on the table next to them as he spoke. "We found that on Tobias when we searched his body…the only thing he had on him literally. There was only one number saved on it too: a 'D.L'."

"And who would that be?" asked the Colonel. There was a brief period of silence before Fletcher replied.

"Daniel Lindeman."

Colonel Adams was silent for a while, before he started to smile a little. "Sorry? You mean, as in the guy from Umbrella's Board of Directors?"

"I know it sounds a very long shot," explained Fletcher, "but I heard this guy's voice. And I recognized it, goddamn it. I called the damn number, and I had our techs analyse the recording too. If you don't believe me, then listen."

And with that, Fletcher moved over towards an audio-tape player that was sat on the edge of the table, and pushed the play button in. There was a few seconds of white noise, and then it played out the small conversation that had been shared the previous day. Adams heard it all, from Lindeman's prickly greeting, to the awkward silence before he ended the call.

"Well," said the Colonel, "that was certainly unexpected."

"You can say that again," replied the Lieutenant.

"But why would an Umbrella director be manipulating one of our own troops?" asked Adams, incredulous.

"Isn't it obvious?" asked Fletcher. "Umbrella have a hell of a large stake in this whole mess. If it came out that they had something to do with it, then they'd all be finished. The directors included."

"I see," nodded Adams, "but that's a pretty big accusation to go around making, Gordon. Do you have any other proof aside from that phone call? A man like Lindeman could easily lawyer his way out of something like this, what with the company's collective wealth behind him."

There was a short silence before Fletcher finally replied.

"No, I don't." Colonel Adams sighed and rubbed his forehead.

"Then I'm afraid there isn't much else we can do," he said blankly. "It's a tragic thing, everything that's happened with Tobias, everything that happened with Raccoon City…but right now we have more important things to worry about."

"And what would that be?" asked Fletcher.

"Gordon, we have orders to move all our troops out to minimum safe distance," explained Adams.

"So we're still going ahead with total decontamination measures then?" asked Fletcher darkly. "There could still be some survivors in that city, you know-"

"But we can't take that chance," retorted the colonel. "The loss of 150,000 people is a heavy blow, I agree, but the government, as well as everyone else, has the welfare of the entire country to worry about. You know that as well as I do."

"Sorry, but I still don't like it," replied Fletcher, shaking his head.

"You don't have to like it, but you still have orders to follow, and that's what you'll do," replied Adams, turning to leave the tent. "This is what being a soldier is all about. Trust me Gordon, I've taken part in my fair share of things I don't like in my career." Their was a brief pause, before the Colonel started to make a move to leave.

"Colonel, I'm sorry," said Fletcher suddenly.

"About what?" asked Adams, turning round.

"About Tobias," replied the Lieutenant. "I make a habit out of knowing every man under my command by name, face, habits, you name it. I should've known Tobias was up to something, and now I lost a good man and we have a major security compromise-"

"-we're only human, Gordon," said Adams lightly, walking up to stand beside the Lieutenant, but looking to some point in the distance. "You, me, Tobias- and humans lie, you have to know. You couldn't have known what Tobias had gotten himself involved in, and blaming yourself won't help anyone, you need to worry about the people you're still responsible for."

Fletcher remained silent through all of this, before Colonel Adams headed back towards the tent exit, pausing just before he passed through,

"Again Lieutenant, move your forces to minimum safe distance. Make sure nothing, and no-one gets left behind." And with that, he was gone, letting the tent flap come down.

Gordon Fletcher sat silently for a while, staring at the tape player near to him, as the audio recording of that phone call repeated over and over again. The Colonel was right on a few accounts: he didn't have to like all decisions high command made, but he had little choice unless he fancied being charged for insubordination. And also, he couldn't exactly let himself get bogged down over what had happened with Tobias At the moment, all he could do was to follow along with that was being asked of him.

"Damn it," he growled, rising to his feet and heading out to make his men ready, just as he heard Adams' Blackhawk starting to take off. He threw aside the tent flaps and ventured outside, heading straight towards Sergeant Bourne, stood conversing with the rest of his squad.

"Sir?" asked the sergeant, snapping to attention.

"We're moving out Bourne, get everything together."

"Where to?" asked the sergeant.

"Minimum safe distance," answered Fletcher, looking towards the ground. Bourne fell silent, and he even shifted on the spot a few times, but otherwise he remained rooted to the spot. "I know it'll be a tall order, but I want everything and everyone readied and moved out ASAP."

"What about the chopper patrols, sir?" asked Bourne.

"Recall them all," answered Fletcher directly. "I think it's fair to say we won't be finding many more people in that damned city…we need to worry about the people we still have with us right now."

"Yes sir," said Bourne, even as Fletcher started to move away, looking to inform the other leaders under his command. Bourne watched his commander go with a heavy heart, knowing full well the horrific implications of what was going to transpire shortly. But he had to get on with the job, either way.

"Come on ladies, let's get this over and done with," he announced, turning away towards his squad.

* * *

They heard the sounds of chewing from just around the corner ahead of them, and they both slowed down, perking their ears up. The sound of crunching bone was then heard, and Ben grimaced somewhat, trying not to imagine the scene that was occurring just out of his viewpoint.

"Zombies?" asked Dean curiously, but when the crunching noises ceased and a long, ragged gasp sounded, they knew it was something much worse.

"No, tongue-bastards," replied Ben, his face darkening.

"Perfect," whispered Dean. "I was kinda hoping for something a little easier just this once." And then the feeding sounds picked up again, the tearing of flesh mixed in with the crunching of bones being broken and splintered like matchwood.

"Well I'm always up for a challenge," smiled Ben, checking over his AK and making a move towards the corner, peering around quickly before pulling his head back as fast as he could manage. He looked back at Dean, and held up two of the fingers on his left hand, showing that he could see two targets. Dean nodded in confirmation, and checked over his shotgun again. Then he had another thought and slung it over his shoulder, reaching back for the .357 magnum he had acquired shortly beforehand. He found its weight comforting in his hands, and couldn't wait to try it out, to see the weapon's devastating power first hand.

"After three?" whispered Ben, getting his attention suddenly. Dean just nodded, and then the count down began.

"Three…two-"

Dean tightened his grip on his weapon.

"…one!"

The two friends quickly spun around the corner, aiming down the steel passageway before them. At the far end, two of those skinless monsters from before, their bare red flesh catching the light from above, were crouched over a dead body, tearing off strips of skin and flesh, splattering blood all around them. At the sound of feet on the floor, they suddenly spun round to face the source of the noises. The closest one, its teeth covered in fresh gore, shrieked at them, as though annoyed at having its meal interrupted. Ben squeezed down the trigger.

His first few rounds smacked into the monster's back, causing it to spasm and cry in pain, before it launched itself onto the nearby wall, clawing its way towards the two humans as fast as it could manage. The second one turned awkwardly and started to approach at ground level, the incessant _click _of its claws on the steel creeping into their ears. Dean aimed his magnum at the monster and steadied himself as much as possible, before pulling the trigger. Because despite all his police training, Dean had never used a high-powered handgun before.

BANG!

The gun went off with an ear-splitting discharge and jumped up in his hands, nearly flying out of his grasp and ripping his arms out of their sockets into the bargain. The sound rolled back and forth down the narrow corridor, nearly bursting his ear drums as well.

_Damn it!_

He managed to control the gun in time to see the tongue monster still approaching him rapidly, undeterred. The shot had sailed over its head by at least 10 feet. Readjusting his aim quickly, Dean fixed the sights over the monster's head, even as Ben opened fire again, cutting down the first monster as it came within 15 feet of them. It fell to the ground with a clatter, losing its grip against the steel. The second monster ignored this event as it opened its mouth and prepared to fling its razor-sharp tongue out towards its prey.

Dean pulled the trigger a second time, and this time his aim was spot on. The creature's head exploded like a gore-filled balloon, and the rest of its body slumped to the ground, blood still pumping out of the severed neck wound. Dean grimaced as he watched the grisly sight, then he finally lowered his weapon, breathing out in relief.

"You OK?" asked Ben suddenly, turning towards him.

"I'm fine," answered Dean, lowering his arms and then rubbing his sore shoulder. "Recoil on that's a bitch though."

Ben laughed out loud for a few seconds before slapping his friend across the back. "Well that's what you get for using a gun you can't handle."

"Hey, I can use this gun just fine," retorted Dean, sounding a little hurt. "It just takes a little getting used to, that's all."

"If you say so Dean if you say so," joked Ben as he kept on walking forward, aiming a quick kick at the first dead tongue monster he passed by. He then skirted around the second one carefully, as with its head missing he didn't really need to double-check at all. Dean watched him go for a few seconds, before he tucked his magnum back into the back of his jeans, and hurried after him, bringing out his Beretta handgun. He stopped behind Ben, who looked down at the remains of the monster's last meal.

The poor man looked as though he had been a researcher before, still clad in the shredded remains of his white lab coat. He also wore black dress pants and smart black shoes, along with a blue dress shirt underneath his coat. His chest had been split wide open as well, from just under his chin right down to his navel, his ribs cracked and broken away, most of his internal organs ripped out and devoured. A few loose strands of intestines remained though, spooling out like discarded ribbon, and the poor man's head lay several feet away from him, his blue eyes wide open, mouth fixed forever in a permanent mask of sheer shock and terror.

"These things need to learn some table manners," noted Dean, turning away from the sight, towards a nearby dorm door. The porthole was still smeared with fairly-recent blood, but he wiped it away with one of his jacket sleeves, trying to peer inside. Through the small glass port he could see that the room inside was fairly tidy and in one piece, but he could see a body slumped over one of the tables, unmoving. He tried the door, but it remained locked.

"Poor guy probably made it this far then bled out," noted the R.P.D officer. "Unlucky bastard-"

Suddenly there was a wide-eyed face at the porthole, just barely an inch from Dean's face, and he fell back, crying out in shock. In an instant, Ben spun round, his AK raised, and was shoving the barrel at the glass, towards the face, which suddenly moved back, raising its hands.

"Don't shoot! I'm human!" cried a muffled male voice, and Ben pulled his gun away, so it wasn't aimed at the fortunate human survivor anymore. He glanced at Dean, just as the heavy 'thunk' of the lock being released was heard, and the door opened halfway. Then a short man with short black hair and brown eyes stepped out, wearing the dirty blue overalls of the maintenance staff. He looked tired and terrified, his cheeks marked with dirt and sweat.

"Oh Jesus, am I glad to see someone else alive down here!" the man said, his voice high-pitched from the immense relief.

"Likewise," answered Dean, tucking his Beretta away. "What's your name?"

"R-Roy," the man stuttered, after a brief pause. "Roy Baker. I worked on the maintenance workforce down here."

"Well I'm Dean and this is Ben," replied Dean, pointing to his friend. "We're both with the Raccoon Police Department- or rather, we used to be."

"The police are here?" asked Roy, sounding a little more uplifted. "But where's the rest of your buddies? Your backup?"

"We _are _the backup," replied Ben blankly. "We could probably be the only police officers left in the whole city."

"What?!" asked Roy in horror, but Ben quickly changed the subject before the poor guy could get anymore exasperated than he was right now.

"Well Roy, looks like you're lucky to have made it this far," he remarked, checking the corridor to his right to make sure they were safe to talk. "Is there anyone else with you?"

"Well," said Roy, looking back over his shoulder towards the body sprayed across the table. "Me and my buddy Danny were together, but one of those skinless fuckers cut his stomach open, and he bled to death. There was nothing I could do; I don't have any medical training!" He cast a mournful glance over towards the nearby body, also clad in similar blue overalls.

"Is there anyone else still alive down here?" asked Dean, impatiently. "Anyone else at all you may have seen?"

"No, everyone else is either dead or zombified," said Roy, shaking his head, before indicating towards the dead scientists nearby. "He was with us as well, but he fell behind and those things were so damned fast! We had to leave him outside!"

Ben suddenly turned on the survivor, angrily. "You locked someone else outside? With some of those things?! Were you out of your mind?!"

"Ben-" started Dean, but he was interrupted as Roy opened his mouth, after a brief period of reeling in shock.

"Look man, I'm sorry to spit on your self-righteousness," the worker sneered, "but right now I'm only worried about number 1!" Ben blinked in surprise, and then started to say something else, but stopped when Dean suddenly took a hold of his arm and pulled him back a short distance.

"Ben, not now," he whispered in his friend's ear. "Yes, I'm aware he's a stinking coward, but we have come too far to start getting caught up on little things like this!" He fixed Ben with a hard glare for a short time, and then he turned back towards Roy, who just continued to stand in the open doorway, watching the two of them converse. At the same time, he constantly glanced back and forth, in a very twitchy manner.

"Look," said Dean turning towards the survivor and talking in a low manner, "we're planning on getting onto the train platform and taking the emergency tram out of here-"

"But that area's locked down," retorted Roy suddenly, his high-pitched voice going right through Dean. "You'll need the master key to get through-"

"-and we know where that is," said Dean firmly. "We need to get into the maximum security area, but we can't do that since the master keys on the other side of that damned door in the entrance hall."

"That does suck indeed, man," replied Roy blankly, in a very unhelpful manner too. Dean rolled his eyes slightly before he continued.

"Come on, there needs to be some other way into that place. We found one of the security guys, Pete, alive not too long ago. He mentioned you by name, Roy," pleaded Dean. "He said there was maybe some way to manually override the locks, and we need to know if that's true. Anything is better than nothing right now."

"Pete?" asked Roy curiously, before scoffing quietly. "I always knew Pete could never keep his big mouth shut."

He looked towards the ground for several seconds, and then he finally glanced up, and started to speak again. "Yeah, I handle the electric systems round here, including the lockdown system for the whole facility. Well, everything except the maximum security area of course, since the power for that place is separate from the rest of the facility-"

"Roy," snapped Ben, but then calmed himself a little before continuing. "Sorry, but we would like to get out of here sooner rather than later." Roy gave him a funny look for a few seconds before he continued.

"Anyway, the transformer room's not too far from here," he explained. "You go to transformer number 5- they're all numbered- and take off the main front cover. You should see a load of wire bundles inside, you just need to twist a few of them together and that should short the locks…hold on, I'll write it down for you-"

With that, he pulled the door to and disappeared back inside the dorm. Dean and Ben looked at one another as they heard the man rummaging around inside the room for something to write on.

"I hope this guy comes up with the goods," said Ben tiredly.

"Well we don't have any other choice," replied Dean directly, and Ben turned away, shaking his head, clearly not comfortable with going along with what this coward was suggesting. After a few more seconds, Roy emerged back into the doorway, holding up a folded piece of paper. On the front were scrawled a square-shaped diagram of what was presumably the layout of wires they had to cross over. There were also a network of criss-crossing arrows going to and fro, and Dean initially felt as though they wouldn't be able to get the deed done, but didn't voice any concerns right then.

"That should show you how to get it done," Roy said simply, passing it to Dean, who just took a quick look at it and then tucked it into his jeans pocket. "Just follow the numbers."

"Will do," replied Dean.

"One more thing as well guys," said Roy quickly. "If you see Donovan, watch out. That guy's got a few screws loose, I'll tell you that."

"We've already gathered that, thanks," said Ben, sarcastically.

"Hell, I didn't even believe in half of these things," said Roy, ignoring Ben's comment just then, "until a few days ago. Jesus, that was a shock. And Donovan acted as though it were business as usual, sending us topside to gather 'specimens'. Well it's been a long time since I took 9th grade biology, but I'm pretty sure bug monsters with razor-sharp teeth and claws don't glass as 'specimens' nowadays!" He was ranting by then, and Dean and Ben cast a quick glance to one another.

"But I'm sure that bastard infected this place to," Roy then growled, and the two cops were about to ask what exactly he meant by that when the technician kept going. "I was looking over the ventilation system not to long before it all went to shit, and saw that someone had broken some glass in the main filtration unit…after that, everyone went crazy and turned on one another. And I saw Donovan walking around that part of the facility as well…acting weird. I knew we should never have trusted that guy…"

"Right then, so where is the transformer room we need to find then?" asked Ben, trying to move things along.

"It's right at the end of this part of the facility, if you just follow the main corridor round you'll come to it," explained Roy quickly. "The door's clearly signposted too, so you can't miss it."

"Good," replied Ben, looking away down the passage to their right. The pristine steel corridor looked practically untouched by the madness engulfing the facility, the overhanging lights still lit fully, and not a bullet hole or claw mark in sight. "So are you coming with us then?"

"What?!" asked Roy, his voice rising in pitch a couple octaves at the mere suggestion of stepping foot outside his current sanctuary. "No way man, I'm going to stay right here where it's nice and safe!"

"You stay in one place, something is going to find a way in there and gut you like a fish," reasoned Ben in a low voice, but the Umbrella technician was having none of it.

"No fucking way man!" he wailed. "I take one more step outside this room and I'll lose it for sure! You've got the guns, you're the cops, you go deal with the problem!"

"We're not damned technicians!" replied Ben angrily, his voice rising in volume. "Having a diagram is good and all, but what if we fuck something up, switch all the lights out? To be fair, the last place I want to be is in the dark with zombies and other monsters running around!"

"Hey, that's not my problem anymore!" retorted Roy, starting to pull the heavy door shut. "You get out of here in one piece, then good on you both, but I'm staying right here until help comes!"

"For god's sake, there is no help coming, you moron!" said Dean forcefully, his frustration starting to get the better of him. But Roy just ignored him completely as the door slammed shut, and the sound of the bolt being slid into place was heard too.

"You stinking coward!" growled Ben, stepping forward and raising his AK rifle, but Dean pulled him back in time before he tried anything rash.

"Ben, just leave it!" spat Dean, pushing his friend a short distance away and putting himself in front of the now locked door. "If he wants to stay in there, then that's his choice. But I for one, am not going to waste my time and energy trying to convince a guy who's already made his mind up about something!"

The two of them continued to face each other down for a while, as they could hear the faint sounds of Roy muttering to himself fervently on the other side of the door. Ben's face retained its rather harsh expression, something that Ben hardly ever showed, considering his rather light-hearted nature, but Dean stood his ground, no matter how long that would take. They'd come too far now to start falling out over little things such as this.

"Fine," said Ben, turning away and walking away down the corridor, before calling over his shoulder, "the sooner we get out of here, the better." Dean watched him go for a while, opening his mouth to say something, but by then Ben had already disappeared around a corner. Not wanting to leave his friend hanging, Dean hurried after him as quick as he could manage.

* * *

Donovan breathed a low sigh of relief as he wandered into the main lab located at the far end of the maximum security area, as far as he could possibly go in this area. He allowed the hydraulic door to slide shut behind him, and then he moved across to the nearest workstation, setting the storage case down, along with his handgun, before looking around the currently dark lab.

The room was huge, nearly 60 square feet in size, so it could cater to all kinds of needs. Along the right hand side of the room were a series of steel workstations, similar to the one he was currently stood next to. Some of them were set up with PC's and keyboards, all of them showing the standard screensaver of the Umbrella logo dancing around the screen, while the rest were set up with various scientific equipment including glass beakers filled with unknown substances and Bunsen burners, long since abandoned in light of recent events. The opposite side of the lab was taken up mainly by several lines of steel storage shelves, containing row upon row of various brightly-coloured liquids and cardboard boxes filled with random items and files of old paperwork. In the far left corner of the room, a power generator sat idly in the corner, intended to provide a separate source of power to this room in case there was a power cut of some kind.

Donovan quickly crossed over to the generator and reached around the side, opening up a small cover on the side and flicking all the switches inside up, and within a couple of seconds, the humming began, along with a series of deep clanks as the overhead lights started to life, row by row, illuminating the lab floor, and Donovan followed the lines as they went all the way to the back of the lab, finally illuminating the very back row of the room.

The far side of the lab floor was raised by several inches off of the ground, and at least half a dozen large glass storage tubes were lined up, some of them empty, but at least three contained some form of biological horror. The one to the far right contained a Hunter B.O.W, its green scales and razor-sharp claws seemingly shimmering within the bubbling liquid it hovered in, its eyes closed, but the beast was very much alive, due to the small vital signs display on the side of the tube. The thing's heartbeat was barely audible, but there, keeping it in a suspended state until its captors decided to rouse it once again. A steady stream of bubbles issued from the bottom of the tubes, cascading up around the monster's body, before disappearing somewhere at the top of the tube.

The other two occupied tubes contained failed subjects of Tyrant creation. The two specimens still kept a rough human shape, but now they were mere mockeries of what they had once been, their skin pale and missing large patches of flesh and muscle, their hair practically fallen out in clumps, their limbs twisted and broken into horrific contortions, bony claws starting to form on their hands and feet. Both subjects had been long dead as far as Donovan was aware, but they had been kept in stasis for some reason, most likely as an example of how _not _to create viable Tyrant B.O.W's. Like the Hunter, a steady stream of air bubbles billowed around them as they hovered in the liquid.

The supervisor only gave the wasting freaks a few brief moments of notice, before he turned towards the huge red storage capsule in the very middle of the row of storage tubes, the massive object that was at least 10 feet tall, the same one which had been delivered to the facility some months back, considered a 'present' from the staff who worked at the Tyrant plant on Sheena Island, an isolated spit of land somewhere out in the Atlantic, a place ran by one of the most depraved people ever employed by the corporation, or so he had heard. There was a thick steel band around the centre of the capsule, and large white letters were printed across the top half. They simply read, in large block capitals, 'T-103 V 2.0'. A small console on the side of the capsule read off a long string of vital signs and other information, long streams of words that he just couldn't decipher.

_In the end, I'm not a scientist._

He looked at the capsule for several more seconds, and then moved away, back towards the workstation with the storage case still left unattended. He sat himself down and turned towards the nearest screen, knocking the screensaver off. The plain green log in screen was displayed, and the supervisor quickly entered his details and clicked 'log on'. The hourglass icon appeared on screen briefly, and then his main desktop was shown, the backdrop just a large plain Umbrella icon. He stared at it for a few seconds, thinking to himself.

_Our family pledged their loyalty to Umbrella: my father worked for them until his dying day__, and me and my brother gave our whole lives to them, abandoning nearly every other luxury in life. And how do they repay us?_

He felt the anger and bitterness seep into his body as he stared at that damned logo, before he calmed himself and opened one of the links on his desktop, which opened up a grey display that covered most of the screen. After several seconds of loading, the display divided into a total of eight smaller screens, each of them showing a grainy black and white view from somewhere within the facility. One showed the view within the facility's entrance hall, totally empty at the moment. Two more showed scenes within the dorms on the eastern side of the facility, where a lone maintenance worker paced back and forth within one of the locked rooms, seemingly muttering to himself. Two more showed his abandoned office and the area just outside it, and finally a few more dotted throughout the west side of the facility.

Donovan had taken the liberty of setting up several hidden cameras throughout the facility when he had first taken over as facility head, making sure that no-one else knew of their existence: he had even killed the ones who had installed the cameras in the first place, to prevent any knowledge getting out. The people who worked here were under his supervision, of course, and he had to keep a close eye on them as best he could, even if it meant going over everyone else's head. He had already been saved from dismissal once by Spencer himself, and if he were to screw up again, then there would be no chance of him staying with the company…

But now his staff either were dead or undead, and he had been largely responsible for that. The day beforehand he had casually wandered into the filtration room on the far eastern edge of the facility, a vial of T-Virus hidden within his jacket pocket. Then once he was sure that no-one had followed him, he smashed the vial in the very bottom of the main filtration duct, underneath the fan, where the virus itself would be spread via the ventilation system. Though normally it would be impossible to transmit the virus via the air, the tiny droplets that ended up being spread through the vent system inevitably came into contact with the staff, being breathed in or being rubbed into their eyes. Also it meant that most of the staff would be infected at practically the same time, rather than it being a gradual spread of infection like which that destroyed the city. He had hoped that the infection would spread too fast for anyone to start questioning where it might have originated from.

But unfortunately for him, some of the staff, in particular Captain Becket and his security force, had taken T-Virus antibodies previously, and as such they were able to resist the initial infection, long enough for them to mount defences against the zombies; and to start questioning where it had originated from originally. And it ended with Becket confronting Donovan in his office, and the captain dead on the floor with his face shot off. But, nothing could change what had transpired previously. He couldn't have any regrets now.

He glanced up and saw the two intruders on one of the east wing cameras. It looked as though they were heading towards the main transformer room, and in a hurry he might add. The blonde one was moving ahead, while his companion trailed behind, trying to catch up. It looked as though they were having an argument, but Donovan wasn't 100% sure from where he was watching from. He was starting to have his doubts about these two: from the way they handled themselves and fought against the B.O.W's, it looked as though they were making things up as they went along: indeed, when the brown-haired one had killed the Urstrix, he had barely managed to defeat the monster, only being able to reach his shotgun when a few Eliminators broke free and distracted it.

Maybe they weren't Umbrella assassins after all. They seemed like amateurs compared to the highly-trained USF members, who knew all about battling every kind of B.O.W that Umbrella had produced in its history. Who knew, maybe they were just lucky civilians who had managed to find their way down here. But since the facility was meant to be secret anyway, it still concerned him how they knew where to find this place…and if they got out, then what they would tell the outside world about Umbrella's activities. And there was a good chance they were looking for him…so they were still a threat that had to be dealt with.

* * *

"Look out!"

Ben threw himself out of the way just as the infected monkey soared through the air over his head, slashing at the air with its razor-sharp claws. It hit the ground and slid along for several feet, before turning back to face its prey. Its white fur was ripped in several places, exposing its muscle and sinew, and its fangs were smeared in blood and other fluids, as it screamed at him in a hateful manner.

BOOM!

Dean fired his shotgun from behind the monster, slamming it back into the nearby wall and ripping its chest open into the bargain. The monster still kipped back to its feet, seemingly ignoring the pain it must have experienced, before Ben managed to get his AK-47 out and opened fire, sending a 3-round burst into the monkey's head, bursting it apart like a ripe melon.

"Heads up!" cried Dean, cocking his shotgun for another round, and Ben twisted his body around in time to see another two monster monkeys round the corner just ahead of him, one of them with white fur, and the other one with brown fur, most of the flesh around its skull long peeled away from the bone, its face set in demented grin at seeing some live prey for a change. Both of them were covered in recent gore and chunks of ripped flesh as well.

Ben swung his AK-47 round and opened fire, peppering them with gunfire. They shrieked as the rounds made impact, but they barely slowed down. One of them launched itself into the air and bounced off of the nearby wall, coming towards him with a screeching cry. Eyes wide, he swung the rifle upwards and squeezed the trigger down, tearing straight through the monster's body and sending it flopping back to the floor, its torso shredded into bloody strips.

The second monkey with the white fur kept on bounding along the floor, before it launched into the air, going right past Ben and heading towards Dean with its clawed feet outstretched, trying to perform a flying drop-kick. But Dean already had his shotgun readied and aimed, he was just waiting for an ideal window to shoot.

BOOM!

The small primate flew backwards, its head gone, and it crashed into the steel and slid back at least 10 feet, leaving a sticky red smear as it went. The wet smack of it hitting the ground, and the metallic clanks of Ben and Dean reloading their weapons were the last sounds heard in the corridor, and then it was quiet once again. There were a few seconds as the two men caught their breath, then all of a sudden Dean walked up behind Ben and caught him by the shoulder, pulling him round so they were eye-to-eye.

"What the hell was that?!" he asked, angrily.

"What was what?" asked Ben back, clearly sounding a little prickled. "We got jumped by a load of fucked-up monkeys, that's what!"

"Well if you hadn't gone off in your little strop, then maybe you wouldn't have walked right into them!" retorted Dean, pointing into his friend's chest.

"We got them though, didn't we?"

"That's not the point Ben!" continued Dean. "You could've been killed, you know! We've come this far and it could've all been screwed up with you getting a pair of fangs through your throat! One moment is all it takes!"

"Hey, what the hell's your problem?" asked Ben, batting Dean's arm away from him.

"You're my problem!" answered Dean brutally. "If you're still pissed off about that Roy guy not coming with us, then learn to deal with things a little better!"

"This is nothing to do with him!" snapped Ben. "It's everything! We shouldn't have to go through this, no-one should!"

"And yet we're still stuck here!" replied Dean. "Believe me I don't like it much either, but I intend to stick it out to the very end…no matter where that leads." Ben just turned and walked away a short distance, before Dean noticed a nearby door and pushed it open, seeing that it was just another bare supply room.

"Ben," he called, getting his partner's attention.

"What?!" growled Ben, turning on his heel.

"In there, now," Dean said firmly, and he walked into the supply room. Ben just stood there for a few seconds, watching the open door, before he sighed deeply and walked after Dean, who was stood within the room, arms by his side, his shotgun and other weapons laid out in the far corner. His face was passive.

"Put your guns down," he said simply, and Ben just complied, apparently too impatient to ask questions right about now. He unslung his AK-47 and tossed it into the far corner on top of Dean's weaponry, and then he removed his Beretta from his holster and put it down atop of a nearby cabinet. Once that was done, he spread his arms either side of him.

"Well, what's this about?"

"A bit of therapy," replied Dean. "I can tell your frustrated Ben, its plain as day. And I'm frustrated with you as well…"

"And why's that?" asked Ben.

"Because you went storming off, like I said beforehand, and you could've got yourself killed…or both of us killed," explained Dean. "So now I want to work off some frustration before we go any further."

"And how will you do that?" asked Ben.

"Like this."

THWACK!

Dean's fist came out of nowhere and struck Ben on the left cheek, hard. Ben yelped in surprise and pain and staggered back a short distance, clutching a hand to his bruised face. He glared up at Dean, his eyes wide, who just flexed his fingers and explained what he had just done.

"See?" he asked. "I'm frustrated because you did a reckless thing, Ben. All the time I've known you as a cop, you've always been so cautious, finding out everything you can about a suspect before we went to their house to arrest them in case we got a nasty surprise. But what you did back there was something only a rank amateur would do; like you'd forgotten all of your training-"

He was cut off by Ben's fist, that came forward and cracked him right in the jaw, sending his head whipping off to the side and nearly knocking him from his feet. The force was quite significant, and he fell back against the wall, clutching at his jaw and looking up at Ben, who just stood there, glaring at him, his fists still balled.

"Jesus Christ Dean, you're frustrated because of _that?"_ he asked, before laughing briefly. "You are so fucking narrow-minded, you know that?! We shouldn't even be here, Dean! Zombies, giant bugs, lizards with razor-sharp claws…we shouldn't even be alive! And yet here we still are, fighting through this damned place with no end in sight!" He turned away and breathed deeply for a few seconds, while Dean could feel his face starting to swell up.

"I mean…people I've know for years are dead and gone," he continued, his voice starting to break. "Marvin, Elliot, Jean, David…all dead, just like that. Why did they have to go, and not me?"

"So you think you should've died instead of them?" asked Dean.

"They had families and lives here!" retorted Ben.

"We had lives here too Ben," noted Dean, standing up and removing his hand to show his bruised jaw. "And of course I miss those guys too, but I can't let myself get bogged down thinking about all of that…or I'll lose my focus on staying alive."

"Well I'm glad you're keeping your mind on the matter at hand," replied Ben, sounding bitter. "How can you say that? Do you realise how callous you sound?"

"Callous?!" spat Dean, walking right up to Ben, in his face, the chances of him throwing another punch growing rapidly with each passing second. "Of course I miss those guys! I came here two years, a complete stranger, and they took me in, treated me like a brother! Of course I miss them," he continued, slowing down, tears stinging his eyes. Ben saw this, and his expression seemed to soften.

"Everyone said it!" continued Dean, referring to what people would always say about him. "'That Travers guy should lighten up a bit more', 'Jesus, the stick up that guy's ass must be huge!' Come on Ben, they liked you more than me, it was obvious! All through life, we've been like yin and yang: you're the joker, the likeable one…and I'm the serious, quiet one: the one everyone misunderstands." He finished by leaning back against the wall behind him and sinking to the ground.

"Dean…"

"So I'm sorry Ben, but you're the only one that's left now…if I can get at least one person out of this mess alive, then I'll die a happy man," Dean finished.

"Dean, don't talk as though your fates sealed," replied Ben quietly.

"Well I must be pretty damned lucky to get this far by myself…giant fleas, giant spiders, zombified zoo animals: I should be dead ten times over Ben, it was a damned miracle I found you when I did," continued Dean, ignoring his friend's protest. "And besides, I've already taken a precaution- I gave you my last anti-viral pill."

Ben blinked in surprise. "What?"

"I gave you my last anti-viral pill," repeated Dean, as though it needed to be. "If you get out of here in one piece, then that's fine by me. "I honestly don't know if I can keep going at this rate…me and my old friend at each other's throats…throwing punches at one another rather than focusing on the monsters around us."

"Hey, we are both going to get out of here," said Ben firmly, looking Dean in the eye. "I have not slogged through all the crap in this dammed city with you, just for you to give up at the last hurdle Dean! If I know one thing about you, it's that you never give up. Am I right?" Dean averted his gaze.

"Hey come on, don't you dare let me down now, you hear?" continued Ben, extending one his arms out. Dean looked at the proffered hand for a few seconds, and then finally he reached out and let himself be pulled to his feet.

"I'd never let you down," said Dean, smiling. "Sorry about your face," he then said, indicating the small welt of blood that has appeared on his friend's face. Ben just wiped a hand over his cheek, looked at the small smear of red across his fingers.

"Sorry about your jaw," he replied, pointing to Dean's bruised and swollen face. Dean just smiled a little in response.

"Hey, don't worry," he said. "You gave me a lot worse the last time we fought, remember?"

"What was that about again?" asked Ben, remembering.

"Last year of university," said Dean. "Last year, it was coming up to the leaver's prom, and we both asked Paige Jenkins if she wanted to go with us…and suffice to say we couldn't both take her."

"Of course," said Ben, grinning widely. "I remember we slugged it out on the university green in front of our history class…and who did she go with in the end?"

"Neither of us."

The two of them burst out laughing.

* * *

Donovan watched the video feed, his brow furrowed in confusion as the two young men ended up coming to fisticuffs, and then seemingly making up and laughing about some subject. As ever, the lack of audio made it frustrating to try and discern what they were talking about exactly. Who were these men supposed to be? He deduced that they probably weren't assassins, as their behaviour seemed too informal to be trained killers, and the fact that one of them had barely survived against the Urstrix B.O.W put more weight behind that theory.

But still, it looked as though they were seeking him out, and if so then what were they planning to do when they had found him? He guessed they at least wanted to try and find a way onto the emergency train platform, but they could only do that with his master key, so they were after that at least, but what else would they do to him? Threaten him? Beat him?

Even kill him?

"They can try," he said to himself, pulling his pistol across the desk towards him. He considered it for a few seconds, and then looked towards the case filled with the daylight samples. Perhaps they were after that too: most of Raccoon's population had been infected, so it was very likely they were after some sort of cure. Of course, only a select few Umbrella personnel were aware of the daylight's existence, but it was likely these men had come here hoping to find some sort of cure anyway.

He opened the case and retrieved the injector gun and one of the pale white vials from the case, staring intently at it. Though he may have resented Umbrella now, in view of everything that had transpired recently, he still felt some sort of responsibility to protect this one final secret he had become privy too, some sort of responsibility to prevent it from falling into the wrong hands.

Taking a deep breath, he picked up the vial and clicked it into the injector, turning it around and preparing to push it through his skin.

* * *

Travis was awoken by the hustle of bustle of a lot of people moving around just outside of his truck. He groaned and tried to stretch out within the front seat of his vehicle, and then wincing in pain as he remembered the pain that coursed through the bandaged injury on his head.

"Dammit…"

That pain also made him remember the events of the previous day, particularly when he walked back to the truck and saw someone standing in the shadows aiming a gun at Cameron's head. Reacting instinctively, he had tackled the mystery gunman, preventing Cameron from being shot, but taking a nasty blow to the head into the bargain. But then things had taken a rather more surprising turn when the gunman was revealed to be Corporal Greene, the one who had been openly opposed to them finding out more than normal about what was going on in the city…though he never imagined him going that far.

Fletcher and the other soldiers had closed ranks since then, and none of them had even attempted to speak to him or Cameron, which he didn't blame them for really: one of your comrades blowing their brains out in front of half the people there merited more attention that the needs of two random bystanders.

He sat up fully and peered out through the still-shattered window, from when Greene had nearly shot Cameron dead. Even in death the Corporal was proving to be a nuisance. He saw military personnel and other civilians running back and forth, the latter clutching onto what few belongings they had, but otherwise there was a lot of shouting going on. Looking to his right, he could see a pair of troops helping a number of wounded refugees get into a flatbed truck, some of them protesting openly.

"What the-?" he asked, kicking the door open and practically falling out of the truck. He stood in place for a few seconds, squeezing himself back against the truck as several people filed past, oblivious to his presence. He looked around and spied Cameron, standing about 15 feet away and in conversation with one of the sergeants. Judging by the man's wild arm movements, it wasn't a very pleasant conversation. He started to approach rapidly, in time to catch the last part of the conversation.

"I'm sorry, but I need to talk to Lieutenant Fletcher," said Cameron, as firmly as possible.

"And I said that's not possible," retorted the sergeant, his patience wearing thin. "Now get the hell out of my sight before I get really pissed off and shoot you!" With that, he turned and stormed off, muttering to himself. Cameron just stood there, in surprise, just as Travis appeared next to him, causing him to suddenly jump in surprise and turn around.

"Travis," he said, breathlessly.

"Hey, what's going on?" asked Travis, indicating the general chaos around them. "And someone else threatening to shoot you? You've been busy lately."

"Very funny, asshole," said Cameron, though there wasn't any humour in his voice. "I woke up 10 minutes ago and they were just moving stuff and people around…looks like they're moving back somewhere."

"But why?" asked Travis.

"Your guess is as good as mine," replied Cameron, stepping back as a pair of troops came by, carrying a wounded patient between them. "No-one is saying anything, and frankly after that thing with Greene, I don't blame them." As he finished that statement, he glanced past Travis towards where a few people milled around a news van from one of the national news stations, loading it up with cameras and other recording equipment. "And besides, looks as though they have enough problems with all the news stations in the mid-west pestering them for a story."

"Fair enough," muttered Travis, suddenly holding a hand to his head.

"Hey, you OK?" asked Cameron with concern.

"Yeah, just a headache," groaned Travis, shaking his head a few times. "But I'll be fine, don't worry."

"Well I guess he hit you a lot harder than we thought," said Cameron with a sly grin. "Either that or your skull isn't as thick as we all thought."

"Hey!" retorted Travis, smacking his friend round the head curtly. "I've sacked guys twice my size and weight and come away with nothing but a few bruises, I'll have you know! And besides, I'm not used to being pistol-whipped into next week," he then added, muttering under his breath, sounding a little embarassed with that last statement.

The two friends turned as they could hear a nearby commotion from over near the tents that sheltered the refugees. A line of troops were trying to herd the refugees towards a nearby truck, but quite a few of them were protesting openly an loudly.

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell us what the hell's going on!" yelled a young man, as he was jostled in between a few other bodies.

"Sir, we're not at liberty to say," replied one of the soldiers blankly. "Just move along and we can get all of this dealt with easily-"

"You can't herd us around like cattle!" shrieked a panic-stricken woman, tears streaming down her face, and several people around her rose up in protest, a scene being repeated at least half a dozen times all around them. It looked as though the soldiers wouldn't be able to control them for much longer.

"Oh Christ, this doesn't look good," muttered Cameron, as he looked over to the left and suddenly spotted a familiar figure appear from within his command tent, flanked by a pair of armed guards. Lieutenant Fletcher looked tired and drawn, but also still carried that air of firmness that he also seemed to have about him. He approached the main crowd, and the other troops parted, and the protests died down.

"People, I know this is all very unnerving for you-" he began.

"Wouldn't you be if you weren't told anything about what was going on?!" asked an hysterical middle-aged man, and the cries rose up again.

"-but getting yourselves worked up is not going to help anything!" the lieutenant continued, and the crowd started to calm down somewhat. "I know we can't tell you why exactly we have to pull back, believe me, its frustrating for us because we can't give you a full explanation…but for the time being we have a duty to keep you all safe, no matter what. If you want this to be over with as soon as possible, then I suggest those of you who still can to help with moving everyone and everything onto the trucks or choppers, so we can get this over with quickly."

A low muttering went up among the crowd, but the Lieutenant had said his piece, and he stalked away elsewhere, while the other troops left behind started to pick out willing and healthy volunteers to help with the movement effort.

"Maybe we should chip in too," said Travis, looking at Cameron with a slight smirk on his face. Cameron looked at him, taken by surprise by his friend's suggestion.

"What?" he said.

"Well lets face it, we don't really have anything better to do, do we?" explained Travis, indicating the human chaos around them. As if to punctuate his point, a few people rushed by, ferrying a wounded man on a stretcher, before reaching a waiting truck and helping the attending medic to load the refugee on board. Cameron looked round at the saddened faces of many of the civilians there, and felt a pang of shame go through him. They'd come hear, searching for two very specific people in mind, but many of these people had lost a hell of a lot more in the madness. The least they could do was to lend a hand in this moment of upheaval.

"Fine," Cameron said finally. "It's the least we can do for them, at least." Travis only smiled in response, before he approached a pair of nearby soldiers, and Cameron hurried after him after a brief moment of hesistation.

"Hey, what can we help with?" asked Travis as Cameron ambled up beside him.

"Well we still need to get those people onto the transports," said one of the troops, pointing back towards the covered tents were several dozen people remained, taking little notice of the hubbub going on around them. Cameron could see Lenny and the other people he had left the city with, and he guessed they must've been exhausted.

"OK," said Travis, before looking at Cameron. "Come on Cam, lets get this over with."

* * *

The Hunter skidded around the corner ahead of them, shrieking madly, its claws and teeth covered in the gleaming blood of its most recent victim.

BOOM!

Then a near point-blank shotgun blast took its head off in one swift motion, and it fell back into the wall behind it, blood jetting off across the ceiling. Then it slumped to the side, and its blood started to pool across the grated floor instead.

"Ouch," said Ben flatly as he observed Dean's handiwork, who just stood off to the side, watching the smoke trail up from the weapon barrel, seemingly miles away. Ben moved past him and around the corner, his rifle drawn. "Its clear," he then called out, and moved on a few steps, out of Dean's sight.

Dean remained standing where he was, but then he suddenly felt faint and leaned against the wall fully, blinking a few times to clear his blurred vision. At the same time, he felt the urge to scratch that spot on his left forearm, the same spot he had been scratching at hours beforehand. He pulled the sleeve of his jacket down and looked at the sore red patch, where he'd been scratching at.

It had to be the virus, he could swear it. Ben didn't seem to be showing any discomfort, but he himself had been feeling a lot more fatigued recently. Some times he felt the bloody fool for giving up his last anti-viral pill, but also he didn't regret it one bit, after that little conversation they had back in that room. Speaking of which, he could feel the pain leaving his jaw now, but it was still somewhat swollen from Ben's fist striking him hard. But he gathered that Ben's cheek as in the same condition, so they could suffer together.

"Dean?" called Ben's voice suddenly, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"Coming," he called, pushing off of the wall and following his friend's voice.

Ben stood within yet another open doorway, peering inside. Several feet away, another body in a white lab coat lay, its guts ripped out and splattered all over the walls surrounding his final resting place. But Dean paid it little interest (he had become somewhat deadened to the sight of countless human corpses during his experiences throughout this whole mess) as he came up next to Ben.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Look for yourself," said Ben, and Dean cast his eyes upward, looking past Ben into the cavernous space beyond.

"Oh my…"

The room beyond resembled some sort of warehouse, its walls and floor made from cold steel, its space filled with row upon row of huge wooden crates, a few large shipping containers, and also a couple dozen large tubes filled with bubbling fluid, a small electric generator feeding cables into the tubes bases. In the water floated numerous creatures: mainly Hunters, but Dean could also see a few shapes of misshapen flesh, and he couldn't tell what the hell they were meant to be: and frankly, he didn't want to know. The whole place was lit up by half a dozen large spotlights built into the ceiling directly, casting thick beams of light down into the dusty darkness. The two friends were currently stood on a steel catwalk high above the warehouse floor, giving them a good overview of the entire space. And at the far side of the floor was a huge corrugated shutter, a forklift abandoned just beside it.

"Is this meant to be some sort of storage warehouse?" asked Dean, after they had both taken in the spectacle for a long time.

"Looks that way," answered Ben, looking towards the glowing storage tubes with the Hunters drifting inside of them. "They keep their little 'pets' inside here, and ship them off to wherever they're needed."

"So this really is a storage facility then, just like Nick said," added Dean, shaking his head. "All well and good, but it still doesn't get us any closer to finding a cure for this damned virus…"

"Chin up," said Ben, turning away and stepping out of the doorway. "We still haven't searched the whole facility yet." Dean continued to stare out into the warehouse for a long time, alone with his thoughts.

"Suppose," he said finally, stepping out of the doorway, allowing it to slide shut behind him, taking the warehouse and its contents out of sight. He continued down the corridor for a while longer, and soon enough he nearly bumped into Ben's back, who was stood outside another shut door, examining the sign just mounted next to it.

"This is it," said Ben, pointing out the sign which read 'Transformer Room'.

"About time too," said Dean, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out the hand-written diagram given to them by that technician, Roy. Luckily, it was still fairly legible. "So now we can get a bit closer to getting out of here."

"Careful, buddy," said Ben, readying his handgun. "There could be anything in there, so best if we take our time, right?"

"Yeah, sure," said Dean, readying his shotgun, ready to cover his friend when he made his move inside the transformer room. There was a shared look between the two, and then Ben pushed the door open and stepped inside, out of sight. Dean followed after him, his shotgun sweeping wide to cover all possible angles within the stuffy confines of the transformer room. A half-dozen power transformers stood in two rows of three on steel grated flooring, an incessant hum emanating from the ceiling fans designed to keep them cooled down. But despite that, Dean could still detect the somewhat stuffy nature of the enclosed space, and he could feel drops of sweat starting to form on his forehead.

"Its clear," said Ben, holstering his Beretta.

"Good to know," replied Dean, wiping the back of his hand across his brow, even as Ben started examining the front of each transformer, looking for number 5, the magic number as far as they were both concerned. After a few seconds, he found the one they needed and called out.

"Bingo!" he said, sounding a little excited, as he then proceeded to tear off the front covering panel, exposing the wire-laced innards. As Dean placed himself next to Ben, he could see the bundles of multi-coloured wires that occupied the inside of the machine, placed in a roughly circular pattern around a large pair of circuit boards. Dean looked at the diagram given to them by Roy, and started to make sense of some of the scribblings. Roy had used rough circles to mark almost a dozen wire bundles surrounding the central circuit boards (marked as two rectangles on the diagram), and then using capital letters to mark their colours: three blue, three yellow and three red; each placed directly opposite another bundle of the same colour.

"Simple enough," he said, and then he started to take note of the arrows that criss-crossed the centre of the diagram, presumably showing which wires were meant to be crossed and twisted together.

"These should do," said Ben, as he retrieved a small pair of pliers with a built-in wire stripper from the inside of the transformer.

"I think we do it this way," said Dean, as he started to note the small numbers scribbled on the arrows, likely indicating that order that they had to twist the wires in. And yet neither of them were trained technicians, so Dean was still somewhat apprehensive of the fact that they could blow themselves up.

"So first twist the top right red…to the blue on the middle left," he said, going off of Roy's diagram. "Be careful with those!" he then said, as Ben started to reach for the wires with the pliers.

"Hey, I'll be fine," Ben said confidently, as he started to unravel the bright red wire bundle, and then he used the pliers to snip through the middle. There wasn't a sudden burst of sparks or anything else ominous, and Ben quickly went about snipping through the blue wire, and then using the wire stripper to expose the copper strands inside each wire, and then finally setting the pliers aside as he set about twisting the strands together as tightly as he could manage.

They both held their breath as he finished the action, but nothing happened. Largely, Ben didn't suddenly get 20,000 volts through his body and get burnt to a crisp. There was a brief period of silence.

"OK, that looks good," said Dean with a fair amount of relief. "Good that you're not frying right now."

"So what's next?" asked Ben, trying to ignore his friend's joke.

"Eager to get your fingers jolted then?" asked Dean jokingly, but he then looked at the diagram again, looking for the number two. Ben just ignored him again, obviously trying to focus on the task before him instead.

"Shut up and tell me what the next step is."

"OK then…bottom right blue to bottom left yellow," said Dean, finally finding the small number two on the diagram.

For the next few minutes, the two friends worked in relative silence, Dean only speaking up to tell Ben which wires to join next, or when they had the occasional disagreement over what to do next, since Roy's handwriting wasn't perfect and it was hard to make some of his instructions out exactly. But then Roy was likely full of anxiety and fear when he wrote it all down, so Dean wouldn't hold it against him. By the time there were only two more wire bundles left to join, there was a criss-crossing of exposed wires that covered most of the circuit boards, and amazingly the whole thing hadn't blown up in their faces…yet.

"Moment of truth," said Ben, as he worked on stripping the wires down and exposing the copper insides.

"Lets hope this hasn't been a massive waste of time then," added Dean, as Ben prepared to twist the final wires together. He held his breath as he started to thread the copper strands between one another. He had barely finished the tying when there was a sudden burst of sparks from the wires, and Ben raised his hands in front of his face.

"Ah!"

And then the lights went out, plunging them both into darkness. Dean heard the automated fans above their heads wind down as well, and then all that could be heard was their panicked breathing.

"OK, that was very smooth," said Dean finally, breaking the silence.

"Shut up!" hissed Ben, sounding more annoyed than anything else. Then a few seconds later, there were a series of deep clunking sounds from somewhere close by, and then the lights finally flicked back on. Dean squinted as the sudden light stung his eyes somewhat.

"Looks like the emergency lights work at least," he said finally, his brow still glistening with sweat.

"But what about the doors?" Ben asked, as he looked at the transformer before him, a decent amount of pure black smoke rising up from the smouldering wires. The stench of melted copper and plastic hung in the air too.

"Only one way to find out," said Dean, looking back towards the door out of the room. From somewhere outside, they could hear the faint hydraulic 'whoosh' of doors opening on their own accord. And then there was another sound: a piercing shriek that almost went straight through Dean. And then they could hear the clicking of claws on the steel flooring.

"Well sounds like the doors _are _open," said Ben, reaching for his AK, "but it looks like we released a few more things as well…"

"Nothing we can't handle," said Dean, standing up and readying his shotgun, even as they heard the clicking of talons right outside the transformer room.

* * *

Roy Baker almost squealed in terror when the lights went out, plunging him into darkness: but then he realised that it was most likely those two cops from before managing to short the transformer out, thus overriding the doors into the maximum security area. He stood in the darkness for a few moments, and then with a low hum the emergency lights came on, and he was bathed in the warm light again.

"Oh, thank god," he whispered, his voice tinged with audible relief. "Those guys must be pretty damned lucky to still be alive!"

He glanced around again, and he could hear the quiet thuds of the automated doors in this part of the facility starting to unlock, and then the shrieks as more of those monsters were released as a result, and then the muffled bursts of gunfire as well. But he was still safe inside this room, which was locked manually with the heavy bolts from his side…so the only way something would be able to get it was if he unlocked the door himself. And he had no intention of doing so anytime soon…and if those two came back to try and talk him into coming along, he still wasn't going.

The cavalry was bound to come round this way sooner or later and get him out of there…they just had to, he reckoned. They wouldn't be as callous as to leave still-living survivors behind in this hell hole-

He heard the very low moan behind him, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end, feeling a tight knot form in his stomach as well. He felt the rancid breath on the back of his neck, and the sweat started to pour from his forehead as well.

_No…no…no- it can't be!_

He spun around as quickly as he could manage, and his heart leapt into his throat. Danny stood before him, except now there was no trace of humanity left in his appearance: his eyes a deathly pale colour, his skin almost blizzard-white. Poor Danny now ranked among the countless undead wandering Raccoon City.

_How though?! He was only sliced by one of those tongue monsters!_

He didn't have much more time to ponder anything else when Danny lunged forward, growling like a rabid beast, his teeth bared. Roy just stood there, frozen in fear to do anything, as Danny's teeth sank into the supple flesh of his neck, and crimson liquid burst from the wound.

He screamed.

* * *

Malcolm Donovan blinked in surprise when most of the small security screens showing on the work station suddenly turned into squares filled with snow, specifically the ones covering the eastern portion of his facility. He had been getting pretty restless lately, feeling his eyes starting to drop from lack of sleep.

"What?" he said aloud, his eyes frantically scanning from screen to screen, trying to work out what was going on exactly, his pulse starting to rise as his anxiety rose.

After a few more seconds, the screens came back on one-by-one, and the director could see the lights starting to flicker on within the abandoned corridors as well. It looked as though that area had been subjected to a power surge, shutting the electrics off, but luckily the auxiliary power had been activated shortly afterwards. Though he knew fine well that the power transformers used in all Umbrella facilities were top of the line, and a power surge wouldn't happen unless someone had deliberately sabotaged them-

"Those two…it had to be!" he said to himself, his voice tinged with noticeable anger. Those two intruders were the only ones still walking around in any position to mess with the power transformers, after all. "Looks like someone's intent on getting to me after all…stubborn little pests!"

He could see the various locked doors starting to swing open on their own accord now, the power surge having over-ridden the facility's lockdown system: and that meant that the main doors into the maximum security area would have been unlocked as well. They were one step closer to finding their way to him…he was running out of time.

"No, it can't end like this," he whispered, grabbing for his handgun and checking that it would fire when needed. "My life won't be ended at the hands of people like you!" He then looked off to the side, towards the huge red storage tank at the rear of the room.

_And I hope that our new delivery will work as planned…_

_

* * *

_

"Fuck this shit!" yelled Ben, as the Hunter dodged around another burst of gunfire from his AK-47. The beast screeched and launched itself at Ben, but his companion was there to deny its assault.

Dean's .357 revolver roared in his hands, punching a massive smoking crater through the middle of the frog monster's chest, throwing it backwards a fair distance and sending it crashing to the unforgiving ground. Blood continued to trail from the massive wound, and then it stopped suddenly. Ben then took the oppourtunity to catch his breath yet again.

"Jesus, that was a close one," he gasped, looking over at Dean who just continued to stare at the Hunter's corpse for a while, before he finally seized up, his face contorting in pain.

"This thing kicks like a mule!" he said finally, looking at the .357 in his hands and laughing a little. Ben didn't say anything in response, instead he just started walking past Dean, heading back the way they had came.

Sure, they had managed to override the locking system, but doing so had unlocked all of the automated doors within this part of the facility, and had also unleashed the monsters hiding behind them. So far they'd already killed a few Hunters that leapt at them from dark doorways, and also several zombies that were still clad in full body armour which had not saved them from the T-Virus. They were getting that bit closer to their ultimate goal, but now it seemed as though the facility had a mind of its own and was sending out every last monster up its sleeve to try and stop them from succeeding. Even when approaching the last hurdle, the odds seemed stacked against them.

_But I've survived worse so far, _thought Dean to himself. _I'm not going to give up now…_

They walked in silence back along the familiar corridors, both of them on edge in case anything was to try and ambush them. They peered into each new room as well, to see if they could find anything of use, but they found little; aside from a fresh can of first aid spray in a trashed dormitory and some spare ammunition for a shotgun and AK rifle off of a couple of dead security guards.

Only when they were getting close to where they had first spoken to Roy did Dean speak up and break the silence. "Maybe we should try and convince Roy to come with us."

"It'd be a waste of time," said Ben flatly. "He was too damned scared to come with us the first time, wasn't he?" he continued, as he kept walking.

"But we're a bit closer to finding our ticket out of here," reasoned Dean. "He might have reconsidered by now."

"Somehow I doubt it," said Ben, still walking.

"Oh come on, it's worth a try at least!" said Dean, his voice rising. Ben seemed to pick up on the change in his friend's tone, and finally stopped walking. His shoulders seemed to drop, and Dean heard him sigh in a drawn-out manner.

"Fine," he said eventually, picking up the pace again. "I suppose its better than just leaving him behind to rot." Dean trailed after him, and soon enough they were directly outside of the room the cowardly technician had sealed himself in when they had arrived. Ben was first there and peered in through the small glass porthole, and his face seemed to turn pale as he saw something inside.

"Actually, I don't think Roy will be able to come with us now," said Ben, moving aside so Dean could have a look. His friend peered through the glass, and his face dropped as well.

A pair of zombies in maintenance uniforms staggered around inside the room, bumping into random furniture as they groped around blindly. Dean didn't recognise one of them, but he clearly saw that the other one was Roy: his skin now a deathly pall and there were several deep wounds in his collarbone region, blood dripping down the front of his black uniform. He then turned towards the door, and as if sensing the humans standing there, lunged straight towards them. His hands slapped against the glass and Dean flinched as he reeled backwards, even as Roy continued to paw at the glass, trying to get at them.

"Poor bastard," said Ben. "His friend must've turned into a zombie and turned him into an appetiser," he then added, noting the second zombie that now started to approach the closed door.

"…didn't deserve this…" muttered Dean, shaking his head slowly. "No-one does."

"Hey come on, we still have ourselves to worry about, right?" reasoned Ben. "I know it sucks, but we can't exactly help every single person out of this mess, can we?" Dean gave him a pointed look, but seemed to agree overall.

"Yeah, sure," he said, somewhat wearily. Then he turned away from the scene, but suddenly found himself feeling faint, and nearly collapsed to the side. He put his arm out against the wall to stop himself falling, but he still slid down somewhat.

"Dean!" cried Ben, his face showing concern. "You allright?" he then asked, as Dean steadied himself, blinking a few times and shaking his head.

"Y-yeah," he answered, still sounding a little flaky. "I just feel…so damned weary. And I've got a bad feeling about what it could be because of…"

"The virus?" asked Ben, pre-empting Dean's answer, who just nodded in reply.

"And I've had this really sore spot on my left arm recently as well," Dean continued, pulling his sleeve down to show the sore red patch of skin just below his elbow. "Trust me, its taking all of my willpower not to tear my skin off and filet my flesh right now."

"Damn," said Ben. "So maybe you regret giving me that last anti-viral pill then?" he then added, flatly.

"Not a chance," said Dean with a slight smirk. "Long as I don't turn into a zombie, I'll be fine."

"Same here," said Ben, starting to smile. "I'd hate to have to waste a bullet on you if it comes to that."

"Oh, thanks!" retorted Dean in mock offence, punching his friend in the arm. "I'll keep that in mind if we happen to find a cure!"

"Looking forward to it," replied Ben, still smiling, his old character coming through again.

* * *

"One…two…three!"

Travis heaved the massive steel crate up onto the truck's flatbed, slamming it down on the steel with a loud clang. Then he and the soldier he had been helping clambered up and pushed it to the rear of the compartment, next to the other two dozen crates they had been loading up for the last 10 minutes.

"OK, that's the last one," said the soldier, removing his helmet and wiping a hand across his brow. "Thanks for the help."

"Sure," replied Travis, trying to catch his breath. He could feel the dampness in his armpits and the beads of sweat forming on his forehead as well. Suffice to say, helping the military to pack up and move their kit out was proving to be quite a workout, if anything else.

He dropped down out of the truck's flatbed, and looked around at the other trucks already fully loaded and awaiting the order to move out. A few squads of troops moved back and forth, herding civilian refugees to their transports. It was all hands on deck, and there was surprisingly little protest from the refugees, probably due to the Lieutenant's little speech before. To be honest, when he had first met Fletcher Travis assumed he was one of those soldiers who only lived for taking orders and carrying them out, but over time he could see that Fletcher was somewhat sympathetic towards their plight, and was willing to help somewhat, even if it went against his original orders.

He ducked low as a pair of helicopters screamed overhead, huge heavy transport vehicles, one of them dangling a humvee from a large winch below it, swaying in the wind. Another one dangled a pair of massive storage containers from its steel cables, swinging lazily in the breeze like clock pendulums. It wasn't the first set of choppers he had seen recently, having observed numerous Blackhawk patrols passing by as well, going to and from the city as well. This really was a major operation they were conducting. He then moved out of the road as a pair of trucks passed by, already overflowing with wounded refugees. Within a couple of short minutes, they had vanished into the horizon, throwing a cloud of dust up behind them.

"Hey Travis," called a voice, and he turned in time to see Cameron come running up to him, huffing for air.

"Get a good work out?" asked Travis with a slight smirk.

"Screw you," panted Cameron in response. "I'm not a high and mighty sports star like you…I don't work out every single day of the week…" Travis ignored that remark as Cameron caught enough breath to speak again. "Sounds like this is happening all across the barricades…all the military forces are pulling back."

"Must be something pretty big in that case then," concluded Travis. "You think it might be something to do with those…things we've seen?" he then asked, his mind wandering back to those twisted dogs that came after them in the woods, but only very briefly.

"Who knows," replied Cameron. "Can't find Lieutenant Fletcher anywhere and I doubt he'd be in the mood to tell us anything either."

"Guess we'll just ride the storm out for now," said Travis, looking around again, as he saw a few news crews loading their gear into their vans, ready to follow the military to their new staging point for the relief operation. Perhaps it was time for them to do the same.

"Come on, we should get ready to go as well," he then said, already searching around in his pockets for the keys to his pick-up. Cameron just nodded, already too exhausted to say much else at the moment. So the two friends started to make their way back towards the old red truck they had initially arrived in.

They passed by one of the green tents, and Travis saw Lieutenant Fletcher emerge briefly, speaking with one of his sergeants, pointing out a few things in the near distance. But the conversation ended pretty quickly as the sergeant headed off, and the Lieutenant disappeared inside the tent once more, closely followed by a pair of armed troops.

_Looks like speaking to th__e Lieutenant will have to wait, _he thought to himself, as he followed after Cameron.

* * *

Back in the entrance hall of Delta Storage and Research, Dean and Ben approached the great reinforced doors leading to the maximum security area, hoping that they would finally be able to gain access to this elusive part of the facility. The small console to the side of the doors was blinking some message as they drew near. It simply read, 'Access Granted'.

"Bingo," smiled Ben, even though there was hardly any emotion in his voice. After going through a rather roundabout way of getting these damned doors unlocked in the first place, the damned master key itself better be easier to find.

"Well what are we waiting for?" asked Dean, approaching the doors and grabbing a hold of the circular-shaped handle set in the middle of it. He twisted it and there was the sudden hiss of air pressure being released, and the door opened gradually. He pushed against it but it only groaned a little and didn't seem to move much. "Hey, give me a hand here will you?" he then asked.

Ben came up next to him, and both friends pushed against the door, which finally yielded and started to slowly swing open. Almost immediately the stench of rotten corpses hit them, and Ben started to reach for his sidearm. "Damn it, they're in here too?"

"Hold up," said Dean smartly, as the door creaked open further, and he spied the two corpses lying out in the middle of the floor in front of them. They were both zombies, albeit dead ones, large blood pools having formed underneath their ruptured skulls. They were both dressed in the uniform of the security forces as well, and Dean already saw the shell casings lying nearby.

"Looks like someone beat us in taking care of these freaks," said Ben, almost sadly, even as Dean stooped down and scooped up one of the shell casings, a 9mm. The brass was still warm, and he could detect the faint whiff of gunpowder as well.

"This only happened recently," he said aloud, standing back up and looking over towards the varnished wooden door that was just a few feet away from them, left wide open for anyone to just wander inside. Ben set about retrieving some extra AK-47 ammo from the corpses, stocking himself up once more.

"Looks a little out of place…" said Ben quietly when he saw Dean approach the door, somewhat surprised to see a plain wooden door down in this place, among acres and acres of cold steel walls and automated hydraulic doors. Dean hesitated for a brief moment, before he slowly took the knob in his hand and pulled the door open fully, sticking his head through, before reeling back, gagging.

"Jesus, it stinks in there!" he said loudly, and Ben caught a whiff of the same scent as he approached the door himself. Curiously, he opened the door fully and the stench slapped him in the face, but he was able to keep his composure long enough to note the source of the stench.

Another corpse lay at his feet, just inside the door. It was another of the security guards, in familiar black uniform, his face ruined beyond recognition by a series of point-blank gunshots. Blood had long pooled out beneath him, and it was already becoming sticky, indicating he had been dead for a while at least. Disturbingly though, the man's skin looked perfectly healthy, and a loaded 9mm handgun lay a few inches away from his outstretched right hand.

"Dean, looks like this guy was human when he was killed," said Ben, then noting the blood-stained ebony letter-opener lying a few inches away from the man's feet, and the bullet wound to his neck.

"Then who killed him?" asked Dean, as he entered the room, looking around to take in its appearance. It was about 15 square feet in size, the far end dominated by a massive leather chair behind a huge oak desk, practically overflowing with reports and folders and photographs. Dean recognised some of the things shown in the pictures, in particular the many-limed bug monsters they had come across a few times before. Either side of the desk was a wall of small video screens, about a dozen on each wall. As Dean glanced over them, he could see that each one showed a different location within the facility, most of them places the duo had already visited.

_So whoever was here was watching us…_

"Some more shell casings here," said Ben, pointing to the glittering brass that lay here and there in front of the desk. "I think there was definitely a struggle in here."

"But over what?" asked Dean, just as his eyes settled on a closed book lying in the very middle of the desk, opposite the chair, clearly in the position for someone to be writing in it. Curiously, he flipped the book open, and realised that it was someone's diary. Flicking through to the front cover, he saw the name 'Malcolm Donovan' written on the inside cover. "Hey, this looks like that Donovan guy's diary."

"Donovan?" asked Ben, remembering what the late Roy Baker had told them of Donovan, the facility's head supervisor. "Oh yeah, that guy. Maybe it'll give us some clues as to what's happened in here."

"Yeah," replied Dean distantly, sitting down in the huge leather seat and turning to the first written entry. He also saw that it was a fairly new diary, the earliest entries being made in mid July. As Ben appeared over his shoulder, they started to read.

_July 19__th__, 1998_

_So it seems these next two months will be a very busy time for Umbrella's Raccoon branch. _

_The Board of Directors has decided to reopen the old management training facility in the Arklay forest, the one previously overseen by Doctor James Marcus, one of the corporation's original founders. And as it happens, my brother has been selected to lead one of the initial teams to assess the building and its grounds, and to begin the clean-up process. They'll be transported in on the Ecliptic Express, a luxury train that's only used by the most prestigious corporation employees. What an honour for the Donovan family. _

_Its been a long time since I was last in that building: over 30 years ago, when I was still a niave young admin head. I was feeling somewhat nervous, but Doctor Marcus took me under his wing, taught me a lot about Umbrella's prestigious history, and the figures who have shaped its development, including the Ashford family. He always found time to meet with me, even as he laboured day and night on his own personal research. But I can't think about the past too much now.  
_

_As it seems I'll be kept busy as well. Contact with the main Arklay facility has been down for a few weeks now, and everyone is becoming anxious of what could've happened. Some rumours speak of a potential T-Virus outbreak, but that would be hard to believe. Security at that facility is beyond our own measures, itself a sector 7 security clearance for most general staff. And due to the loss of contact, we've had a recent influx of B.O.W's for research and storage purposes. Mostly the usual fare, though we did receive delivery of another Neptune B.O.W, so our existing specimen will finally have some company._

_But the recent cannibal murders have been intensifying, and the news speaks of a potential future operation by the police force. Who knows which way that could go, but the uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach still won't go away._

_July 28__th__, 1998_

_Everyone in Umbrella is in uproar, and for good reason. _

_The Arklay facility was destroyed on the morning of the 25__th__, after someone had activated the self-destruct sequence. Its common knowledge that the R.P.D's elite S.T.A.R.S team had been deployed into the forest the night before, to investigate the cannibal murders, and only 5 of them returned. Its all over the papers too…their wild tales about flesh-eating zombies and other nightmarish creatures._

_It looks as though my hunch was correct. There had been a T-Virus outbreak at the Arklay facility, and now everyone in my staff is terrified the same will happen in Raccoon City. In 100% of all reported T-Virus outbreaks, there has been a complete mortality rate. I've already attended three crisis talks at the downtown HQ this week, and senior management is keen that rumours are kept to a minimum. But this news means another thing is certain._

_My brother is no longer among the living. His e-mails to me were regular, but they stopped abruptly suddenly, right before the traning facility was due to re-open. I found out from a contact at head office that the MTF and its surrounding facilities were also infected and destroyed by the T-Virus. I need time to grieve, but HQ has suspended all staff leave for the time being until further notice. I have just lost my brother! Do they have no compassion?! _

"The Arklay facility?" asked Ben.

"The mansion in the woods," murmured Dean, remembering what Nick had told them back at the law offices. "That's where this outbreak originated from…and now its spread here."

They continued reading as a grim silence descended.

_August 3__rd__, 1998_

_Every day I come to this place, it seems as though there's another newspaper story on this entire mess. _

_The surviving members of S.T.A.R.S have been suspended indefinitely from duty, their outlandish stories dismissed as being bought on by severe trauma bought on by some unknown event that lead to the deaths of their team mates, or hallucinations bought on by smoking blue herbs…whoever you believe or which paper you read. The corporation is certainly doing a good job in keeping the truth quiet, because if it were to somehow come out, we would all have a lot to answer for. Pretty much everyone knows that the chief of police is on Umbrella's payroll, and it was his decision that lead to their suspension: as ever, he wears his bridle well.  
_

_But my work duties still take priority. We are due a visit from the team working at the Tyrant plant on Sheena Island in the next couple weeks. Who knows what that could be? _

_August 15__th__, 1998_

_The team from the Sheena Island facility visited today__. They were making delivery of a new B.O.W variation, and we had the honour of storing it, and also monitoring the B.O.W's vitals, for any signs of change. Security was fairly high, a small detatchment of USF soldiers keeping watch. I swear, those guys make my bones chill: they don't seem human, behind those gas masks and red lenses. When they were here, I had a conversation with the head of the team. Apparently he and the others were glad to get out of their own facility for a change._

_He talked at length about their facility head, Vincent Goldman, who I have heard much about. Goldman is supposedly a cruel and vindictive character: its rumoured he murdered his predecessor in order to get a promotion, and isn't adverse to some pretty sadistic research methods on living subjects. The team leader in particular spoke of an operation performed with an anaesthetic, in order to withdraw a certain hormone from the brains of prepubescent teens. Disgusting, but fascinating indeed: we should try it out sometime._

_I had the B.O.W stored within the main lab of our maximum security area, and reviewed the general details myself. A very promising specimen, I must admit. _

_In other news, my request for a memorial in memory of those killed in the recent outbreaks has been turned down repeatedly by HQ. Their excuse is that they 'can't risk any information regarding the bio hazardous outbreak be leaked'. Its not as though I'm asking for a public memorial, just a private function! Do they honestly take me for an idiot?_

_I called again today to request the function once more. And this time, one of Spencer's aides answered himself. And when he refused my request, his tone became downright hostile. _

_My family has served this corporation for 3 generations! My grandfather was one of the original directors on the main Board! And this is how his descendents are treated?! That bastard Spencer has forgotten the prestigious past of the company!_

"This guy's got some issues beyond his station," noted Ben with a slight smirk. Dean was inclined to agree, as Donovan's final passage for that entry took on an almost manic tone. But they continued to read on, eager to see what other information the mad man would part with.

_August 20__th__, 1998_

_Two more of my staff resigned and left today, without saying a word. Apparently they were terrified that the city would be destroyed by the T-Virus, much like the Arklay facility had been, and wanted to skip town, despite the stringent instructions from HQ to not flee town. But regardless of all those warnings, they had already left the city before noon. _

_It was hard enough to find good help in this city, but now it looks as though my job's becoming that much harder. Umbrella staff the city over are being bombarded with questions from reporters and press regarding the company's 'other activities.' I have even been accosted by a few reporters myself, but have warded them off each time with the old 'no comment' rule. Seems despite the S.T.A.R.S being suspended, some people have believed their claims and are asking around. Of course, most regular Umbrella staff, including the administrative staff that work above us, have no idea of the B.O.W research._

_But this would likely still be worth a visit from the company's Intelligence section. What fun…_

_August 29__th__, 1998_

_Today we had a visit from the Intelligence sector, as expected. They've imposed a company-wide restriction on information flow, which means all Umbrella employees are restricted from discussing any aspect of the corporation's workings, no matter how trivial, to any friends or family outside of work. _

_Most of my staff are deadly opposed to this of course, but I made sure they know that they have to stick to it as tightly as possible, since the intelligence service never messes around in instances like these. I've already heard of a few other Umbrella researchers across town being taken away after wagging their tongues too much. What happens to them after that...I would rather not think about.  
_

_Personally, every time I come down here, I find the experiences more and more stressful. Someone screwed up, and now the rest of us have to pay the price. Any mention of the outbreak at the Arklay facility is strictly forbidden and feared, and everyone is on edge, paranoid that they're being watched or listened-in on. Also, I have given up trying to organise that memorial service for those lost in the outbreak. Those fools at HQ have more pressing matters to deal with, clearly. But let them run about._

_September 11__th__, 1998_

_The headline of the Raccoon Press today talked of unidentified creatures being sighted in the Arklay forest, and apparently its not the first time. Such stories were common place back in May, all the way through to the end of July…when the Arklay facility was destroyed. _

_That unpleasant feeling in my stomach has returned. It has to the T-Virus, it just has to be. The centre of the infection may have been destroyed, but clearly the abundance of wildlife in the forest is still carrying the virus, still spreading it to anything in range, bringing it closer and closer to the city. Its only a matter of time before the entire city is infected!_

_But I cannot abandon my duties, my workplace. I need to discuss this development with HQ tomorrow, and then hopefully they can begin to devise a solution for this. I seriously doubt they would let the city their North American division is based be destroyed, after all. _

"It started in the Arklay facility," said Dean quietly, "and then it spread its way here. This was inevitable…"

"No, if those bastards hadn't created this damned virus in the first place, then we'd all be spared a lot of misery," replied Ben, turning away. "There's no point talking about prevention after what's happened so far."

Dean lowered his head and sighed, and then turned the page, hoping to see if Donovan's ramblings held anymore clues for them.

_September 15__th__, 1998_

_We received some paperwork today from HQ, regarding planned 'evacuation orders'. Apparently the company has started to withdraw its operations and staff from the city. Clearly, they have already planned for the worst case scenario, and this knowledge has only served to unnerve my staff even more. Captain Becket and most of his security force are remaining loyal, as expected, but __the maintenance staff and researchers are rather more skittish it has to be said. Another 3 of them have quit since my last entry._

_And the newspapers are still talking about the spate of murders that have sprung up again. Last night an entire family in the suburbs were killed brutally and apparently eaten. The similarities to the murders in the summer are uncanny, as is the fact the victims were eaten. It seems there are more and more T-Virus hosts appearing in the outskirts of town, so it is only a matter of time before they appear within the inner city itself. Despite the brave show I put on for my staff, I'm starting to feel helpless myself._

_September 18__th__, 1998_

_Miller, one of my senior researchers, is dead, and two other staff members are seriously injured. _

_He came in this morning, looking like the reaper himself. He kept complaining that he felt hungry, and he kept on scratching at his skin as well until it was red raw. It was more than disconcerting for half of the staff, and even more so when he suddenly passed out in the canteen during lunch break. But the worst was to come. _

_When Paul, one of the other researchers, checked Miller's pulse and found nothing, the senior researcher had suddenly lunged up and taken a bite out of Paul's neck, blood jetting up like a geyser. It took 3 others to pull the two apart, and when they did, Miller turned and sank his teeth into a security guard's forearm and tore off a hunk of the man's flesh. After that Miller was shot dead by the other security guards, who didn't have that much choice. I didn't see the scene myself, but I was able to watch the security footage later on myself. _

_The other researchers did some tests on Miller's body, and confirmed what I feared. He was infected with the T-Virus, which had killed him and turned him into a zombie. Paul and the wounded guard, Trent, are in the infirmary right now as the others try to save them, but its only a matter of time. I ordered both of them to be quarantined until further notice, and similar instructions would apply to anyone showing symptoms of the virus. They objected of course, but what else can I do? If we don't quarantine them, the entire staff would be infected within hours._

_When is HQ going to do something about all of this? I have heard nothing since those evacuation papers were delivered, and already one of my senior staff is dead, and two more are as good as. If this keeps up, then I will have no-one left to help me to continue the company's work._

"So they had plans to pull their staff out of the city, but no-one else?" asked Ben, to no-one in particular. "I'm sorry, but there is no damned excuse for that, whatever you say. They only cared about cutting their damned losses and protecting their own interests."

"They didn't want the truth getting out, of course," replied Dean. "So what did you expect? Even though the truth's bound to come out after this mess is over and done with…" His voice trailed off as he turned the page once more.

_September 23__rd__,1998_

_There's been a lot of commotion over at the main Raccoon research lab. I heard from my contact there, Roger, that the facility's head researcher, William Birkin, was killed last night by Umbrella Special Forces. Why exactly, he didn't say (or wouldn't say, Roger has a habit of not trusting me with every little piece of info). Either way, this is a major blow for the corporation. _

_As for Birkin himself…he had worked for Umbrella most of his life, since he was a teenager. A great scientist, a brilliant mind: but a flawed personality. He had aspirations above his station, and quite why Spencer allowed him to lead the Tyrant project, is anyone's guess. And the fact that Birkin always used to hang around with that other guy…I forget his name, something beginning with 'W' I think…always wore dark sunglasses. That guy always creeped me out, during our time at the training facility.  
_

_And apparently Birkin__ had been working on another project as well, so top-secret that only the staff working directly on that same project, and a few other select officials, knew of it. My contact says he was apparently working on some new strain of virus, vastly superior to the T-Virus. To be fair, this is the first I've heard of this new virus, and don't know what to make of it. But we've only just started to realise the potential of the T-Virus, and already Spencer's approved research on a new virus? We should be concentrating on our T-Virus projects until we've exhausted all potential, not spreading our funding across more than one separate research strand. _

"Another virus?" asked Ben in disbelief. "Isn't the T-Virus bad enough? What the hell are they inflicting on the world now?!"

"Well whatever it was, lets hope it isn't down here as well," replied Dean. "That's the last thing we need right now."

_September 25__th__, 1998_

_Still no word from HQ on when we are vacating the town. Apparently, the word hasn't been filtered down to any other facility within the city limits either, so God knows what the hell they're thinking. And the Raccoon Times shows there's been some more deaths: this time it's the Faulker family, somewhere in the Cider District in the western part of the city. A mother, father and their two young daughters killed in their sleep…it makes my skin crawl even to think about it. To think about the monsters that did that horrific deed… _

_I must focus on my own responsibilities. Two more researchers have not come into work today, and trying to contact them is a fruitless affair. I fear the worst, as is the norm around here now._

The next entry was marked on the same day that the outbreak had gone nuclear within the town, the same day that Dean and Ben had seen most of their comrades been massacred at that damned barricade.

_September 26__th__, 1998_

_Its happened. The moment we've all been waiting for. _

_It started around mid-morning. Only half of the late shift turned in tonight, petrified and ranting about zombies swarming the streets above them. Looking on the exterior cameras, we could all see they were right. Knowing I had no other choice, I ordered the main entrance to be sealed off, preventing anyone or anything from getting in or out of the facility. It meant myself and my staff would be kept safe at least. _

_We all watched the destruction spread. It was inevitable that something like this would happen, but what has the corporation done about this? Nothing! We heard nothing else from them since we were sent those orders regarding the evacuation, so what the hell were they thinking?! Unless they deemed my facility and its workforce too trivial to protect. But that's preposterous. My family have dedicated themselves to the servitude of the company for years, thery wouldn't dare leave a distinguished member of the Donovan clan to rot in this hell hole, would they?_

"Poor guy," said Dean out aloud suddenly. "Somehow he thought he should have been saved from all this, because of who he was."

"Clearly they didn't find him important enough," replied Ben casually. "Nor the rest of his Umbrella 'friends'." Dean flicked the page over once more.

_September 27__th__, 1998_

_I've been monitoring the radio for hours now, praying for some kind of message to come through from HQ, hell, even from another Umbrella facility in a similar situation to ours. But its all to no avail. The lines are totally dead, and already a few of my staff are going stir-crazy from being cooped up in a place they see enough of every day. But what choice did I have? If we tried to venture outside, then we'd all be wiped out. _

_But another part of me has seen an opportunity through all of this madness. I wonder if any new B.O.W species have been created through this outbreak? Either way, sitting in here twiddling our thumbs will not accomplish anything. I have decided to deploy squads of the security force out into the city, with a view to collecting combat data on any B.O.W's encountered. It's the least we can do, to find some good in all this madness. _

_But not everyone welcomed this news with open arms, some of them threatening to upstage a mutiny if I insisted on this course of action. And one thing I was taught at the management training facility was that if it looks as though a number of your subordinates are showing discontent, then a little fear near did any harm. And so Mike became a sacrificial lamb for the rest of his friends to consider. _

_I haven't forgotten everything you taught me, Dr Marcus…_

"The crazy son of a bitch, what the hell was he thinking?" asked Ben as he read that last part over a few times.

"I don't think he was," replied Dean, reading over the same part. "Looks like this whole mess drove him off of the deep end…can't say I blame him really. And he can't have been the only one either."

_Well if he lost it, then why haven't we gone bat shit crazy? Or is there still plenty of time for a nervous breakdown to kick in?_ He quickly shook off those thoughts as he turned the page once more, to view yesterday's entry.

_September 28__th__, 1998_

_We have met great success with sending people out into the city streets. We have lost some men, of course, but there must always be casualties in the way of general progress, as Dr Marcus always said to us. Sometimes, it feels like those halcyon days were only yesterday. _

_According the initial reports, it looks as though most of the population has succumbed to the virus. And it seems some new B.O.W's have appeared as well: a couple of the teams dragged back a large insectoid creature that looked similar to the Chimeras developed at the Arklay facility, and the research team has already done a preliminary autopsy of the body. It seems to act as a blood-sucker, drawing blood and other vital fluids from its prey while they still live, and using its sickle-like claws to slice into soft flesh and through bone, according to accounts from the survivors._

_One of the researchers had already dubbed it a 'drain deimos', and many seem to agree with the moniker. It's a promising find indeed, though I am disappointed that we couldn't acquire a live sample. _

The entry for that day seemed to end there, but then Dean saw the writing on the opposite page, marked with a few stray drops of dried blood, the words more scratchy and erratic than the previous entries.

_Damn it all! Captain Becket has tried to take my life, but I was able to shoot him down! The bastard deserved such a fate, after discovering the truth…the truth that I spread the virus within the facility…it was their own fault, daring to try and go over my head, leave the facility and try to escape the city that burns above us, daring to leave me behind! I had to do it: I needed to show them who held all the power down here, who holds their lives in the palm of their hands!_

_But it doesn't matter to them now: the power to the main elevator has been knocked out, and the others have been trapped down here, doomed to become zombies or die at the hands of the things they had worked alongside for so long! It's the best fate for them, after trying to defy me!_

"Jesus Christ, this bastard totally lost it," said Ben, stating the obvious and shaking his head. "Dooming everyone else to death just because they wanted to try and leave!"

"Yeah well, don't worry," replied Dean. "I'm sure we'll get some time to give him a piece of our minds…there can't be many more places down here for him to hide." As he turned the page over, he found that it was the very last entry in the diary, and also that it was actually dated for today, showing that they hadn't missed him by much. The writing was more refined now, and more legible.

_September 29__th__, 1998_

_It looks as though this will be the last entry in my diary, ever. _

_From what I've seen on the screens, most, if not all, of my staff are dead or zombified, doomed to wander these cold steel halls for the rest of their existence. I am the only live one left…or rather, I was the only one left. _

_It looks as though two people from above were able to find the way down here somehow, and now they're walking about, no doubt searching for entry into the emergency train platform…and only my master key can unlock the way through. They are certainly very talented to have survived this long: even when I tried to separate the two of them, leaving one at the mercy of the Ursinex, he was able to kill the damned thing by himself! Either they're naturally talented…or desperate. _

_But I suppose I'm getting desperate as well. There are no more barriers between me and them, and I have no intention of dying down here, in the confines of my own office, long abandoned by the corporation that I had dedicated so much of my life to. How ironic...discarded like a piece of trash. So I'll leave, and I'll take the Daylight samples with me, the T-Virus cure that was entrusted to me some days ago, the secret kept from the rest of my staff. _

_Whatever happens at the end of this day, I'll never let those fools get the better of a descendent of the Donovan family. I'll protect the master key, and the Daylight samples with my life if necessary! I'll be waiting for them to come to me...  
_

"Daylight? A T-Virus cure?!" asked Ben aloud. "So there is a cure! And this bastard was keeping it hidden from everyone else in the facility!" Dean was silent, though he agreed wholeheartedly.

Knowing there was a definite cure for the T-Virus proved that this wasn't a worthless trip after that…that Nick and everyone else's deaths weren't in vain on their journey here. But if there was a cure, then why wasn't it universally known to all Umbrella employees? If they had been working with this deadly virus for so long, then why wasn't an outright cure created just in case? It seemed a little illogical, but having heard of most of Umbrella's dirty secrets, Dean didn't think logic factored into many Umbrella experiments.

"Well this bastard has the Daylight, and doesn't want to give it up," Dean said instead, standing up. "So I say we take the fight to him. Hate to keep him waiting, right?"

"You sure about that?" asked Ben. "I know he's just one guy, but he's one guy who likely has a gun-" he then said, indicating towards the dead body lying by the door. "-and he's a guy who's gone insane as well…so that makes him more dangerous as well."

"Come on Ben, after all we've been through lately you're worried about dealing with one crazy guy with a guy?" asked Dean, mockingly.

"Remember that last 'crazy guy with a gun'?" asked Ben, referring to that incident in the department store the other day…when that guy from the Scorpions had been inches away from blowing both of them away. If Nick hadn't shown up-

"Well we're not getting caught off guard this time, right?" said Dean firmly, sounding a little irritated. "We've come too far to be caught napping now."

"Sure, if you say so," replied Ben, not sounding wholly convinced, though Dean was too exhausted to pick up on it right now, as he started to move towards the door, carefully stepping over Captain Becket's corpse.

"Come on man, we're so near the end of this shit and I'd like to get it over with as soon as possible if you don't mind," he said instead, trying to disguise his mood. "You're with me, right?"

"Of course," retorted Ben, surprised. "Until the very end."

"Good, then let's go meet Mr Donovan, shall we?" asked Dean, starting to grin slightly.

* * *

Nearby, Donovan had already caught wind of their intent. He'd seen them enter his office through the security footage, seen them proing over his diary intently, in which he had spoken of his growing insanity, and then saw them exit after a few minutes. He knew he had left his diary, along with all the other reports given to him by his late staff, and the former more than implicated him in his hand in the horrors created down here.

They were coming here, and he just knew they had ill intent towards him. And even though he was outnumbered and outgunned, he still had one last ace up his sleeve: one last throw of the dice in an attempt to cheat his fate: the delivery from Sheena Island, that had so far sat at the far end.

_Never tested in the field of course, but the Sheena Island staff are always known to create some high quality-products- the T-103 line has proven to be a massive success__ so far. _

He hovered just next to the huge red cylinder now, before he reached around and popped off a side panel, exposing a number of controls. He flicked a few switches, and was rewarded with a series of green lights illuminating, bringing the experiment out of stasis and starting the process of pumping its massive body full of vital proteins and endorphins, to ensure that it would be combat-ready as soon as possible.

He then pulled down the large lever on the far side of the panel, and there was a high-pitched hissing sound as a jet of ice cold steam was blown out from the bottom of the cylinder, and the steel frame it was attached too started to adjust, lifting it up so the huge object now stood vertical in its place. Numerous green lights along the side of the cylinder blinked to life, and a small black screen reeled off a long line of confusing vital stats. All he knew was that it looked stable, and that was better than nothing.

"Vital signs stable," said a cool female voice suddenly, emanating from the speaker set into the side of the control panel. "Subject preperation underway."

"OK then," Donovan said to himself quietly, as he moved back towards the nearby workstation, seeing the intruders starting to move away from outside his office, into the main work area of the maximum security area: barely 70 yards away from where he currently was: almost on top of him.

"If you're so intent on coming for me, then come on!" he growled, picking up the handgun from the counter and checking it over, before looking over towards the main entrance.

"And I think you'll find I have the home advantage."

**A/N: And done. This chapter was originally going to be a little longer than you see here, but I decided to cut it a little shorter, so it ended better, and also since the last chapter was pretty huge and there was I long wait between the chapters, I didn't want it to be forever between updates for you guys. Anyway, this chapter shows Donovan's connection with James Marcus: which might explain a few things. **

**The next chapter will feature a pretty big battle for our intrepid heroes. Most of you may have already guessed what it's going to be, but things will definitely be a change of pace from this chapter at least, so bring your drinks and snacks for your front row seats to the brawl! (because the catering staff will likely charge you a fortune for on-site refreshments- typical. .)  
**

**Anyway, Chapter 26 is being produced as this is going out, so until next time R+R as usual please.  
**


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26: A Masterpiece of Madness

**September 29****th**** 1017 hours**

The final section of the maximum security area seemed to resemble more of an administration office than a laboratory. There were at least two dozen small cubicles, each one barely 10 square feet in size, many of them already sealed off with thick bullet-proof glass. This had been done purposely, Dean assumed, as he saw that there were a few zombies trapped within several of the cubicles, beating against the glass as the humans wandered past outside.

"Looks like these poor guys got trapped when the place was locked down," noted Ben, looking at one brown-haired man in a white researcher's coat, leaving bloody smears on the glass from where his hands made contact.

"Yeah, sucks to be them," replied Dean, as they circled around the right hand side of the cubicles, out of sight of the trapped zombies, but they continued to beat away at the glass. The cubicles seemed to be arranged in a grid-like fashion, with central aisles going vertically and horizontally to divide them up. They passed by the passage and came up to the cubicle on the very corner, its entrance wide open, unlike the others.

Inside the cramped space, all they could see was a single desk with some lab equipment on, a note pad with someone's science notes on it, and a test-tube rack, filled with at least two dozen tubes, filled almost to the brim with dark green liquid. Each vial was sealed as well, clear tape wrapped around each tube plunger.

"Looks like someone was working here," noted Ben, as he started to pore over the handwritten notes on the desktop, as Dean picked up one of the glass vials carefully, examining it closely. Ben looked over the topmost note in the pile, and saw that most of the note was just a long line of scientific formula, which he could never read. He never did really like science class at high school.

But the bottom two lines were written in normal language.

_Synthesis report Alpha: 12x samples of T, 12x samples of T batch two. _

_Why we're making more of this damned stuff now, who knows…_

"T?" whispered Ben, before he looked at the vials and saw that Dean was currently handling one of the glass vials.

"Careful with that," he then said, extending his hand out. Dean looked at him, his face showing confusion.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I think that's the T-Virus you're holding." There was a long and uncomfortable silence after that remark, and Dean slowly turned his head to look at the glass vial he held, trepidation showing on his face.

"You sure about that buddy?" asked Dean, his voice sounding a little shaken. "Now's not the time to be joking around…"

"No, I don't think I'm joking," replied Ben, as Dean slowly set the vial back down in its place. "This note shows they were creating more samples of it for some reason."

"So," said Dean, staring at the row of green-filled vials, "this is the cause of all this."

"Suppose it is," added Ben, looking at the vials, feeling his hatred towards Umbrella's experiments starting to boil up to the surface again. "All this destruction and death…all because of some simple green liquid."

"Some _lethal_ green liquid," noted Dean. "If any of those got smashed, then our situation would get a little hairy. Wonder if we'd turn into zombies on the spot?"

"Well I'd rather not find out," replied Ben in a prickly manner, already leaving the cubicle. "Come on, we got more important things to worry about right now."

"Suppose," called Dean back, though he stayed for a little longer to stare at the rack of green vials for a while longer, thoughts swirling around his head.

_So, this is it then…the root of all this destruction. Hard to believe those bastards at Umbrella were able to perfect something so deadly over all those years. And all for what? To line their damned pockets with gold? Or for something more sinister?_

_And of course, the same thing that's ravaging our bodies at the moment…_

Looking at the cause of Raccoon City's destruction again reminded him of his own personal battle as the virus ran through his veins. He felt no different- though he still felt as though he would pass out on the spot- and that was what worried him the most: was he meant to feel anything else? Or would it just be a sudden thing? When he'd been gunning down Raccoon's former citizens, he wondered the horror they must've gone through, watching their flesh transform into a rotting shell. And wondering if he'd be subjected to the same horror…

Not wanting to think about it too much, he quickly left the cubicle and followed after Ben, up towards a heavy-looking set of double doors. Not as massive as the doors leading into the maximum security area itself, but still pretty huge. Ben was already struggling to pull one of them open as Dean approached; before the two of them combined their efforts to pull it back fully. As they peeked inside, they saw yet another large room before them, not as huge as that storage warehouse they had seen on the eastern side of the facility, but still fairly large compared to some of the other areas they had passed through recently.

"Looks like a dead end," observed Ben in a low voice. "Come on, let's find this bastard and end this."

"Amen to that, replied Dean, as they both stepped inside, weapons drawn.

The room looked to be some sort of lab, with a series of storage shelves on the left hand side, a number of workstations on their far right, and at the very far end were a number of glass storage tubes, raised off of the ground, a number of different freaks floating in the fluid. The low hum of a generator in the far corner could be heard also. Dean slowly crossed to the workstations, and saw that one of them showed signs of recent use. He knocked off the screensaver and saw the last user's screen.

A series of small images on a grey background, showing various scenes throughout the facility could be observed, including one showing the outside of Donovan's office, and another one showing the inside of the office. It looked as though that bastard had been watching them for a while now.

"Looks like this guys got a thing about keeping an eye on what goes on inside his facility," Dean said aloud.

"We call that paranoia," shot Ben back, wandering along through the shelving, peering inside many of the open boxes he could see. Most of the contents were just random lap reports and other paperwork, nothing too important, even if his natural curiosity was getting the better of him right now.

Dean scoffed. "Paranoia or not, he was here not too long ago. Be careful."

"Will do," replied Ben, as he started to approach the far end of the room, just near to where the storage tubes were on display. Dean meanwhile, remained over at the workstations, just as he found what looked like a used injector gun, lying just next to the used keyboard. He picked it up in his hand and examined it closely.

"What was this used for?" he whispered to himself quietly.

Meanwhile, Ben stood before one of the storage tubes, examining the Hunter B.O.W that drifted serenely inside, its eyes closed as bubbles cascaded around its glittering scales. He moved onto the next tube, where something unidentifiable floated. It looked as though it had been human once, but now it was just a mere mockery of its former self, its flesh pale and pasty, large chunks of its flesh peeling off of the bone, its limbs twisted and contorted into horrific shapes, bony claws starting to form on its hands and feet. The face, in particular, was nothing but a misshapen mess, its mouth filled with broken dagger-like teeth.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered, wondering just what madness could reduce a human to such a wretched mess. But then he knew that it must've been the T-Virus: the root of all this madness…and someone would have to put an end to it.

He moved further along the platform, until he reached the massive red cylinder, held in an almost upright position by a thick steel frame, the small console attached to the cylinder's side showing a number of green blinking lights, a black screen reeling off lines and lines of confusing information. Ben paid little attention to that though, as he read the large white letters imprinted across the front of the cylinder: 'T-103 V 2.0'.

_Wonder what that means?_

His eye picked up a clipboard lying atop of the console, and he reached out and picked it up, reading the single sheet of paper clipped to the front, marked with a few signatures in black ink.

_Delivery Report #123_

_1x T-103 V 2.0, delivered by Sheena Island Team._

_Supervised by: Logan Warrick, Team Supervisor._

_Project Lead: Vincent Goldman_

_Signed off by: Malcolm Donovan_

_Details: The T-103 V 2.0 is an updated version of our flagship T-103 series, created by infusing the regular dosage of BHN with a cocktail of various proteins known to encourage cell division, alongside splicing some 'Hypnos' genes to promote rapid cell growth of superior genetic structure. Doing so has proven to increase the subject's intelligence to a certain degree, along with its strength. The V 2.0 has similar combat capabilities to the regular 103 line, but its increased intelligence allows it to utilise its surroundings to attack its enemy, and also to defend itself from attack._

_In addition, live combat tests have shown that the V 2.0 is able to recognise and ignore known Umbrella personnel in the general area: as such, the data of the team transporting the V 2.0 and all the staff in this facility__ has been uploaded to the subject's brain. If this trait can be incorporated into our future B.O.W's, then the possibilities would be endless. _

_And of course, as with other T subjects, the V 2.0 is able to enter its 'Reborn' state when heavily wounded. In this form though, it remains as uncontrollable as others of its ilk. _

"A V 2.0?" he asked himself quietly. "What the hell's that meant to be?" he then said, carefully putting the file back down on top of the small console. "Well whatever it's meant to be…then its active." He was starting to get a very bad feeling about this, as he started to back away slowly.

_Click._

He heard the faint sound of a hammer being cocked from behind him, and then heard the voice.

"Don't make any sudden movements. Turn around."

Ben slowly turned around, to come face-to-face with a man in his early 40's, his sandy blonde hair starting to recede, face set into a rather manic grin, and wearing a dress shirt and pants. But most of all, Ben found his attention drawn to the man's eyes, a disturbing beige colour that seemed to conceal a fierce intelligence…and something more sinister. He held a H&K P8 handgun, currently aimed at Ben's face.

"Well I knew it was only a matter of time before you made your way here," the man replied, sneering. "Impressive you both managed to get this far."

"And I suppose you're Donovan?" asked Ben calmly, even though he was getting an overwhelming urge to beat this guy to a bloody pulp right now for all the shit he'd forced he and Dean through so far. But with a handgun in his face, he didn't really have much choice in the matter, and he slowly released the grip on his AK, letting it hang from his neck.

"Yes, I suppose I am," replied the gunman, still smirking. "I am the supervisor of Delta Research and Storage, this facility you stand in right now."

"Yeah, nice place," replied Ben. "Shame about all the zombies and other freaks wandering about."

"Yes, such a shame," replied Donovan, almost as though he were having a conversation with an old friend. "Such a shame my staff have been reduced to such a state."

"Yeah, and funny that you're the only one still alive," retorted Ben. That comment seemed to get Donovan's back up, who took a threatening step forwards, his face starting to harden.

"It served them all right!" he growled loudly. "Those fools were trying to shirk from their duties to this company, they damned themselves to hell!"

"No, you damned them by spreading the virus through this facility," replied Ben.

"Well, looks as though you're well informed," replied Donovan, sounding a little sarcastic. "Been talking to the ones skulking in the dark, have you?"

"Something like that," was the reply, as Ben thought of their encounters with Pete and Roy, some of the facility staff still alive amongst all the bloodshed and madness down in the cold steel passages and rooms. Then he glanced his eyes down, and saw that Donovan held a steel carry case in his other hand. "What's in there?"

"Nothing to concern yourself with!" snapped Donovan, turning his body so the case was out of direct sight. "It won't matter much anyway, because you'll both be dead soon." Donovan's brow then furrowed, and his tone became a little softer. "Where is your friend, anyway?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," replied Ben, honestly. He knew fine well Dean had been stood over next to the workstations when he had wandered off to examine the tubes at the far end of the room, but where he was now was anyone's guess. Hopefully he was hiding somewhere, biding his time.

"Your tricks won't work on me," retorted Donovan. "I've prided myself on knowing everything that goes on in my facility, and I know for a fact that you two have barely left one another's side. So where is he?" his tone became a lot more firm and hostile as he spoke that last statement, moving closer to Ben, the handgun still fixated on his head.

"Like I said, no idea," replied Ben, still trying to keep his cool, though he felt the anxiety starting to build in his gut. One wrong move would be the end for him here.

Donovan seemed to take the dodge though. "It doesn't matter anyway, because like I said, you'll both be dead, thanks to this magnificent specimen," the supervisor stated, sweeping an arm across the huge red cylinder before them. "Soon as its awakening cycle is complete, then you'll see what we Umbrella 'hacks' are capable of!"

"Magnificent?" spat Ben. "I'd use a lot of words to describe your 'creations', but magnificent isn't one of them!"

"You just don't understand," replied Donovan, almost sadly. "You people never have…and you never will. Once you've seen one of these in action, then you'll realise just how imperfect our own human flesh is."

"You're joking, right?" scoffed Ben. "You seriously think a bunch of twisted monsters are better than humans will ever be?"

"I've dedicated most of my life to this corporation, just like my family members before me," replied Donovan, still staring up at the huge cylinder, a far away look in his eyes. "I've come to realise a lot of truths during my tenure with them…"

"Truths?" asked Ben, his anger against Umbrella starting to broil to the surface. "Are you blind or just stupid? You've seen what they've done to this city, reducing its population to zombies; they've killed Raccoon City! What if this virus gets outside of the city? You know fine well the entire world could be destroyed! Hell, this virus is the same thing that killed your entire staff, the people under your responsibility, and still you're defending them? You're nothing but a deluded psycho!"

Donovan swung around quickly, aiming his handgun at Ben's face once more, his face showing incredible fury. Ben backed away in surprise, feeling his anxiety growing back once again.

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up!" screamed Donovan, his anger rising with each word. "My family has served Umbrella for generations! My grandfather was one of the original members of the board of directors, and my father worked alongside James Marcus to create the T-Virus, the same thing ravaging this city! I have even dedicated most of my life to this company, and how does it repay my loyalty? By leaving me down here, in this hell hole, to rot to death! During our greatest moment of need, our masters have abandoned us!"

He backed away and little and turned his head to the side, trying not to show his frustration too much. Ben could clearly see this guy's loyalty to his employer had been somewhat shaken by recent events.

"I have no love for Umbrella now," Donovan continued. "Once this is all over, and I can leave this place, then I can start afresh." He then looked over at Ben again, his face darkening.

"So you see, you and your friend are the last hurdles in my path to escaping. And once you're both gone, then I'll be free to leave at my own pace!" Ben leaned back and held his breath, waiting for the inevitable gunshot to the head to come.

But it never did: since the stock of a S.P.A.S 12 shotgun appeared from between Donovan's legs, and then swung up, striking him directly in the groin.

The supervisor squealed in agony and dropped to the floor, the handgun and the storage case clattering down as well. He immediately curled into the foetal position, his hands clamped down across his privates, before the sound of a shotgun being racked reverberated throughout the cavernous room, and Ben looked up at the familiar figure standing over Donovan.

"Try anything stupid and I'll use this end on you instead," growled Dean Travers, aiming the shotgun's barrel at Donovan's face. Then he looked up at Ben. "You OK man?"

"Y-yeah," said Ben eventually, his anxiety starting to fade away once again. "Took your sweet time, didn't you?"

"Sorry, I couldn't make any sudden movements unless he saw me creeping up," replied Dean, looking down at Donovan, now reduced to a pathetic coughing mess curled up on the floor. "Looks like it paid off in the end."

"Suppose," replied Ben, before he saw Donovan trying to reach for his sidearm, and he reached down, grabbing onto the man's wrists. "And what do you think you're doing?"

"Come on," added Dean, reaching down and pulling Donovan up by the back of his shirt with one hand, picking up the small carry case in the other. "Let's get you sat down then!"

"Get your hands off me!" yelled Donovan in protest, but was silenced as the two friends forced him down into one of the swivelling chairs by the currently active workstation, Dean setting the case down next to him, while Ben had retrieved Donovan's P8 and set it down besides the keyboard too. Dean kept the supervisor in line by keeping his shotgun trained on the man's chest.

"Look, we just want the master key so we can leave this damn place," said Dean, getting straight to the point. "Trust me, you've put us through enough shit for us to even get this. Remember that damned bear? I bet that was your doing?"

"I only acted to try and defend myself!" retorted Donovan, unrepentant. "I had no idea if you had been sent here to kill me for my failure!"

"We might still kill you depending on the mood," said Ben flatly. "So just give us the damned master key, and we can get this over and done with."

"Never!" growled Donovan. "You can't take it from me-"

He was silenced when Ben smacked him across the jaw with the butt of his AK-47, knocking him to the ground forcefully. Dean's eyes went wide in surprise, but Ben was stooping down and already rifling through the pockets on Donovan's shirt, before pulling a grey fob-like object with a key part poking out of it.

"Yes we can" he said, passing the object to Dean, who took a quick glance at the key, then tucked it away into one of his pockets. "Sorry, but this guy is really starting to wear my patience thin."

"You'll pay for that!" growled Donovan as blood trickled from his bust lip.

"You're not really in any position to promise anything, are you?" replied Dean, waving his shotgun threateningly. "Now what about those?" he then asked, indicating towards the carry case they had also retrieved.

"Are these the daylight samples?" asked Ben, throwing open the lid.

"Don't touch those!" barked Donovan, scrambling back to his feet. "Those-"

He was silenced as Dean covered him with his shotgun once again, indicating for him to sit down, which the supervisor did, slowly and carefully, his eyes never breaking contact with Dean's. Meanwhile, Ben peered inside the carry case to find a series of glass vials, each filled with a pale white liquid. He carefully picked one of them out of its case, turning it over in his hands.

"Is this the daylight?" asked Ben eventually, fixing Donovan with a stare.

"Yes, the cure for the T-Virus," replied Donovan, after spending a quick second looking at Dean's shotgun, knowing he had little choice in the matter. "Entrusted to myself by the team at the university…and my last responsibility given to me by my employer."

"Right, and you just happened to keep it a secret from the rest of your staff, even with all this crap going on?" asked Dean in a spiteful manner. "If you'd just taken the time to show to them, then maybe they'd have been able to synthesise a mass cure, prevent this crap from happening!"

"Not possible," replied Donovan flatly. "Only the team at the university have the means to further synthesise the samples of daylight…we simply wouldn't have been able to reproduce enough vaccines in time with the equipment we have."

"Bullshit," muttered Dean.

"I find it funny that you still see yourself having a 'responsibility' to them, after you just said you've got no love left for Umbrella," added Ben from the side, receiving a scathing look from the facility supervisor. "Why don't you make your mind up?" He just got a scathing look from the supervisor in response, as Dean showed the injector gun he had discovered beforehand.

"Looks like we can use this to administer the Daylight," he said, before he noticed a fairly recent red sore on Donovan's arm. "And it looks like our friend here gave it to himself," he then added, pointing out a sore red patch on the supervisor's arm.

"You can never be too careful in these times," said Donovan flatly as Dean clicked one of the samples into the gun, preparing it for use.

"Looks pretty simple to use," he said aloud, as he raised it up to prepare the needle to enter his skin.

"Hold on," said Ben suddenly. "You sure you know what you're doing with that?"

"Not really," replied Dean, half-heartedly, "but I've got the T-Virus running through my body as we speak right now, so I don't really want to waste too much time stalling and get this over with soon as I can."

"Fair point," replied Ben flatly, as Dean held his breath, mentally preparing himself for his next act. Slinging his shotgun over his shoulder, he then rolled up the left sleeve of his jacket, exposing his bare forearm. He looked for a visible vein to inject into, and started to raise the injector to administer the Daylight. He paused for a few seconds, and then lowered it, pushing the application end up against his bare skin, and then pulling the trigger.

There was a quiet hiss of pressurised air being released, and Dean grunted as the needle pierced his skin and just as quickly retracted. He lifted the injector away, and saw the small red mark on his arm where the needle had entered. But he also felt a chill run through his body, and then just as quickly it had faded away.

"I think it worked," he then finally said, looking up at an anxious Ben, his Beretta pushed into Donovan's neck to stop the man doing anything rash. "Here," he then said, passing the injector gun over, "your turn."

"Okay then," whispered Ben, taking a hold of the injector and preparing to insert a fresh vial of Daylight into the storage capsule. As he discarded the empty and used vial, Donovan shifted in his seat uncomfortably. His eyes locked onto his P8 handgun, lying just out of reach, to the side of the nearby keyboard, though he still had a shotgun trained on him to stop him making any sudden movements.

Ben pushed the injector into his bare arm and squeezed down the trigger, and he too felt the rush of cold through every vein in his body, presumably the Daylight taking effect, though he felt no different from what he had beforehand. He looked down at the injector gun, before turning towards Donovan. "So is this Daylight supposed to work?"

"Yes," nodded Donovan, begrudgingly. "The vaccine freezes your entire bloodstream, killing off any T-Virus cells present, while leaving the rest of your immune system intact, and making your body resistant to any further T-Virus infection."

"Oh thank God," sighed Dean, lowering his head. "No more biological time bomb hanging over our heads."

"And now we can get the hell out of here," continued Ben.

"Not quite," said Dean suddenly. "We still got one thing to worry about…him." He casually waved his shotgun barrel towards the seated form of Donovan. The one last surviving human in this facility…and the one who had caused them no small heap of trouble since they had first entered this place. A rat backed into a corner: but rats were the most dangerous in those types of odds.

"What do you suggest then?" asked Ben, raising an eyebrow. The facility supervisor was starting to look a little uncomfortable in his seat as he looked back and forth between the two survivors.

"Well we can't take him with us…he'd probably run the second we turn our backs, or worse," noted Dean.

"So, what are you saying we do?" asked Ben, moving around to the other side of Donovan.

"We leave him here," said Dean flatly. "I'm sure the B.O.W's would enjoy the meal."

"You can't do this to me!" shrieked Donovan, rising to his feet. "My family is a distinguished part of Umbrella's history-"

He was silenced when Dean suddenly stepped forward and struck him hard with the stock of his S.P.A.S 12, hard enough to knock him off of his feet and split his bottom lip open, a thin trail of blood trailing down his chin. As the supervisor lay on the ground, Dean stood over him, aiming his shotgun down.

"I don't give a shit about your family's history!" he yelled, anger rippling through his body and his words. "Far as I'm concerned, you're just a spineless weasel who hid while this virus killed your staff! You're all the same, peddling those damned viruses, creating these monsters for God knows how long! You all deserve to hang for what you've done!"

"Dean, stop it!" yelled Ben, shoving his friend aside. Dean whirled back on him, his face still showing anger.

"What Ben?" he asked. "You don't think Umbrella deserves to suffer for what they've done?"

"Of course I don't think they should get away with this, but you can't just act as judge, jury and executioner!" retorted Ben, holding his ground. "Don't put blood on your own hands!"

Donovan, lying forgotten on the ground as the two men argued among one another, looked up towards the workstation, where his P8 lay unattended. Then he looked back towards the others, waiting for the ideal moment to act.

"I kill this bastard, trust me, my hands would be a hell of a lot cleaner than Umbrella's!" ranted Dean in response, not willing to back down either.

"So you think killing him will make amends for everything that's happened in the city?" asked Ben. Dean shook his head.

"No, of course not," he admitted, lowering his shotgun slightly.

"Then why are you talking like this?" asked Ben. "I know Umbrella deserve to pay for what they've done…but not like this. He is not solely responsible for this," he then added, pointing at Donovan, "and killing him won't make things magically better either." Dean turned his gaze away, almost apologetically.

"Sorry," he said finally, "I just kept thinking about all the others who didn't make it. They deserve justice…"

"And they'll get it, remember?" replied Ben, holding up the memory stick that he had been given by Nick the previous day- the exact same data which had been given to Dean as well, all of Umbrella's dirty little secrets.

"Of course," smiled Dean, barely. "I forgot about that. But yeah, I guess that would be better than putting that bastard out of his misery-"

He was cut short when he saw an abrupt movement behind Ben, and instantly knew what it was.

"Get down!" he barked, grabbing onto Ben's shoulders and pulling his aside, out of the danger zone, as Malcolm Donovan stood behind him, aiming the P8 handgun that he had recovered from the workstation, his face looked into a manic grimace.

BANG! BANG!

He fired off two shots, both of them sailing over Ben and Dean's heads and impacting into the steel entrance doors.

"Die!" screamed the insane supervisor as he re-aimed to fire again, and Dean lunged straight for him, arms stretched out before him. He quickly grabbed onto the supervisor's wrist and twisted his arm away, towards the back of the room. Donovan managed to squeeze off three more random shots, struggling madly with Dean, but the R.P.D officer was bigger and stronger than him, and he thrust his neck forward, smashing his forehead into Donovan's, with enough force to knock the weedy man to the ground again with a brutal crack.

"Shit!" cursed Ben, as Dean casually removed the magazine from the P8 and tossed the empty handgun as far away as he could manage. "That was too damn close!"

"Knew we shouldn't have taken our eyes off you!" yelled Dean, readying his shotgun again. Donovan pushed himself backwards as he lay on his back, a hand held to his sore head.

"A rat backed into a corner can still be dangerous!" growled the supervisor, defiant as always. "And your friend's right! Killing me won't bring any justice to the fallen, or any pleasure to you!"

"We'll see about that, shall we?" asked Dean darkly, as he aimed his shotgun down at Donovan's chest. He pushed one of his feet down on Donovan's left leg as well, applying enough pleasure to make the man squirm in pain. "Maybe I'll just paint your brains all across this floor, shall I?"

But all three of them were suddenly distracted by a high-pitched 'whoosh', the sound of air pressure being released from somewhere near the back of the room. All eyes turned towards the huge red canister at the far side of the lab.

"Aw shit!" cursed Ben.

The three shots from Donovan that Dean had redirected hadn't just impacted safely into the far wall. Instead, two of the shots had broken one of the pipes mounted on the side of the canister, and the third shot had actually hit the control panel dead centre, cracking the display screen and sending up a spray of sparks every few seconds. Pressurised air steamed out from the broken pipe as it coiled and whipped about like a wounded python.

"Storage compromised," stated a cool female voice. "Repeat, storage compromised. Subject storage unstable."

"I don't like the sound of that," muttered Dean, turning towards the tank and clutching his shotgun tightly, taking his attention away from Donovan. A few seconds later, the thick steel bands encircling the canister released, issuing a thick cloud of icy steam that emerged from inside the canister. Dean and Ben both flinched at the sudden sound.

"Now," laughed Donovan as he propped himself up onto his elbows, "you'll understand just what we have accomplished over the last 40 years!"

The top half of the canister's front suddenly snapped away from its mounting, thrown across the room with such force that it crashed into one of the storage shelves and sent its entire contents, including several beakers of acid, crashing to the floor. Pools of bubbling green and yellow liquid gathered, scalding through the concrete surface. A few seconds later, the lower half was throw away from the mounting, landing on the floor in front of its housing and sliding along several feet, making a loud scraping noise into the bargain.

_Something…something inside did that, _thought Dean to himself as he noted the massive dent on the inside of the casing lying not too far away from them. He looked back towards the canister, a large amount of gaseous ice spewing from inside, obscuring the view of whatever the hell was inside. Though he wouldn't have to wait too long to see what it was, as _something_ slowly pulled itself out of the canister, and out from behind the icy curtain.

_What the-?_

The thing they saw wasn't as monstrous looking as some of the creatures they had seen so far during the outbreak, but one look was all they needed to show that it wasn't exactly human either. Standing just over seven feet tall, its huge body was clad in a long green trench coat that went down to just above its ankles, its feet wearing huge boots ringed with steel supports near to its knees. It wore gloves of the same colour as well and studded with steel ingots, its fists the size of bowling balls, and a steel belt around its waist. Its exposed head was totally bald and of a sickly grey colouration. It slowly pulled its legs free from the canister and set them down on the ground as it gripped onto the sides of the canister, hard enough to warp the steel as though it were made from cookie dough.

_Oh geez-_

It finally pushed itself away from the canister, a heavy amount of frost still lying on its arms and torso, though the giant seemed to pay it no heed. It finally raised its head to look straight at them, and they finally saw its eyes: pale white, the same as a zombie's, but these seemed to glow inside his head, filled with power and rage at everything in the world. Dean and Ben backed away slightly from the creature, waiting for it to make the first move.

"Now you'll see what exactly the pinnacle of our T-Virus research can produce!" laughed Donovan.

* * *

Travis eased his pick-up into a parked position at the side of the road, just behind an army humvee, and pulled the handbrake on, peering back over his shoulder at the route they had taken.

It seemed they had been driving forever. They had all driven some 30 miles back down the road, to the point where the city couldn't even be seen directly. The only indication of the destruction still gripping the city where the small trails of black smoke that they could see on the horizon, just above the crest of the Arklay Mountains in the near distance. On a normal day, the sight of the sun just cresting the top of the mountains would be a rather picturesque sight, though that was the last thing on everyone's minds right now.

"Why have they pulled this far back?" asked Cameron, as he watched the soldiers unloading the refugees from two of the transport trucks. "We must have driven at least 20 miles back down the roads. Have they got something else planned?"

"Who knows?" asked Travis, exhausted as all hell. "Frankly, I don't care. There's no chance of us finding Dean and Ben if we're this damned far back from the city. Why are we even bothering anyway?" he then added, as he turned off the ignition, kicked the door open and dropped out onto the ground, slamming the door shut with as much effort as he could muster. Cameron continued to sit in the cab, letting Travis' words sink in for a while, before he threw open his own door and followed his friend outside.

The military had set up their new shop on some anonymous section of the country highway, no sign of civilization in sight, aside from the large green sign placed at the side of the road, showing the distance towards major towns within the county, including Maple and Raccoon City itself. But already a few teams of troops set about putting up the tents for the refugees and the medical centres once more, while a few more set up the barricades barring the road both ways. Finally, there was the long stream of hangers-on: national press and journalists, and of course the dozens other people like Cameron and Travis, eager to find news on their lost loved ones, a long battery of various civilian vehicles having formed up along the roadside.

He sighed and rubbed his face, the lack of recent sleep really starting to show now. He then pulled out his cell phone and checked that he had a couple of missed calls, one from Lisa, and another from his own mother. He wondered how they were all doing, back home in Riverview, sitting up all day and night sick with worry. He figured he'd at least give them a phone call, before his phone battery died on him completely. Then after that maybe the soldiers would be able to help out further.

"Look, you need to step back, now!" urged a soldier loudly, and Cameron turned his head to see Travis standing in front of a fairly large green tent, a pair of armed soldiers standing in front of him. Their body language was pretty aggressive.

_Oh damn it, _thought Cameron, quickly dashing over.

"Not until I see the Lieutenant!" retorted Travis, standing his ground. "He owes us a damned audience, at the very least!"

"He's got a lot on his plate right now, in case you haven't noticed yourself!" barked one of the troopers, pushing Travis back a few feet.

"Travis, what the hell are you doing?" asked Cameron as he came up behind the scene.

"I'm just trying to see Fletcher, that's all," replied Travis casually. "It's been a while since we last talked to him. And I for one, have had it up to my teeth with all this crap that's been going on!"

"Sir, you need to step back!" replied the other soldier firmly.

"Travis, this is not the way to do it!" urged Cameron, practically pleading with his friend.

"You should listen to your friend," added one of the troopers, raising his M4 rifle to shoulder level.

"Or what, you'll shoot me?" sneered Travis. "Go ahead, I'm sure you'd love to do that right in front of half the county's news channel crews." There was an awkward silence after that comment, but everyone involved continued to stand their ground.

"Travis, stop it!" urged Cameron, eager to settle this dispute in an orderly fashion.

"Let me through now!" barked Travis, ignoring Cameron's pleas, as he tried to push in between the two soldiers, and they pushed back firmly, knocking him onto his rear.

"Back off!" yelled one of the troopers, as they both aimed their rifles down at Travis' chest. "Don't give us a reason to ventilate your ass, news crews or otherwise!" Standing nearby, Cameron felt his heart rate soar, dreading what might happen next if Travis couldn't control his temper. The football star rose to his feet, anger etched on his face, his fists balled.

"That's enough!" barked a familiar voice, and immediately the two troopers backed away, lowering their weapons, one of them sighing in annoyance as he did so. The front flaps on the tent parted and Lieutenant Fletcher emerged into view, looking drawn and tired.

"You know gentlemen, you really have a knack of getting yourselves into trouble, if you don't mind me saying."

"Oh ha de fucking ha ha," muttered Travis under his breath, still steamed from the altercation, before adding, "good thing you called off your dogs, Lieutenant".

"I'm sorry," answered Cameron, feeling his heart return to a more regular pattern now. "He's feeling just a little agitated after everything that's happened," he then added, getting a withering glare from Travis in response.

"Understandable," replied the Lieutenant, wiping his face as the two soldiers stood on either side of him. "It was very sudden for all involved…no-one expected things to come to this."

"Come to what exactly?" asked Travis. "What's going on?"

"A long story," sighed the Lieutenant. "As you can probably see, there's been a lot on my plate recently. I'm sorry I didn't come and see you both sooner, but if you can just wait a little longer-"

"No, you can tell us now!" snapped Travis, cutting Fletcher off. "We've waited long enough through all this crap, and now that we're a lot further away from the city, how the hell are we meant to find our friends now if we're way back here!"

"Travis-!" cried Cameron.

"You think you're the only person annoyed at this set-up?" asked Fletcher firmly. "Look at them," he then added, indicting over towards the lines of scared, hungry refugees from the city who gathered around what few cots the army had remaining. "They've lost everything they've ever known, they don't know if their friends and family are still alive, and they're stuck out here, a million questions on their minds."

Travis looked over at the refugees, the lines of dirty, sad faces, crushed by fear and doubt, and realised how selfish he had just acted then and there.

"So in other words, gentlemen," the Lieutenant added, "you are not the only ones who want some questions answered, so try and show some patience, why don't you?" And with that, the officer turned and walked away a short distance, before calling over his shoulder, "Please don't take it out on my men. Their job is hard enough as it is without putting up with the flak from the people they're supposed to be helping."

Travis stood in place for a while, his head lowered, breathing deeply to himself, before he looked back up at the tent, in time to see the flaps close shut, the two soldiers he had been arguing with taking up guard positions on either side of the entry, one of them still giving him the evil eye. Then finally, he turned and stalked away, leaving Cameron to watch after him with concern.

"Travis!" he called, before looking back at the soldiers. "I'm sorry about that," he then added.

"Hmph!" growled one of the troopers, as Cameron hurried after his friend.

* * *

_This is gonna be interesting__… _

The silence in the room was almost overwhelming, as the two humans continued to stare down the hulking beast that stood barely 10 feet away from them, deathly still, as if waiting for them to make the first move. Its face looked as though it were made from solid rock, as it wore a perfectly blank look, its eyes boring straight through Dean as it glared down at him. Donovan was still sat quietly several feet away, just within the giant's line of sight, but it paid him no attention. The icy blue mist from is storage pod continued to waft around its enormous feet.

Dean glanced towards the facility director for a brief second, then back towards the giant, lest it try anything, though it seemed content to just stand there and glare at them for the time being. Dean's finger curled around the trigger of his shotgun, willing the monster to react in some way. He glanced down at the monster's bowling-ball like clenched fists, wondering how much damage it could do with those things.

_Either way, I wouldn't like to find out…_

A single drop of sweat rolled down Ben's forehead, as he kept his aim fixed on the broad chest of the 'Tyrant', readied in case it was to act suddenly. But nothing happened, and the monster continued to regard them both with its pale white eyes, until Donovan chose to finally break the silence.

"That's it, you beautiful creation…crush them!" he sneered, blood dripping down his bust lip.

As if spurred on by the director's words, the Tyrant suddenly moved, lifting one of its enormous feet forwards, the hollow _thump _of it hitting the concrete floor reverberating throughout the massive chamber. Then it moved its other foot, covering 3 feet in a single stride, and a second _thump _was heard. Then it moved again, approaching the two survivors. Its face remained deathly blank, its glowing white eyes showing no hint of any emotion.

"Oh yes!" laughed Donovan, rising to his feet and moving so he was standing roughly behind the Tyrant. "Now you'll witness the power that Umbrella commands!"

"Oh shut up!" cried Ben, aiming at the Tyrant's chest and pulling the trigger.

A burst of rounds smacked into the giant's chest clearly. He saw the blood burst out and the fabric tear where the bullets had made contact, but otherwise nothing else happened. The monster didn't even flinch or stall, it just continued on its current course. Ben's face dropped as he stared at the torn holes in the creature's chest, seeing the gun smoke rise from the wounds. Then he clearly saw the flesh repair itself, seemingly stitching itself up, no trace of his attack remaining. "Oh fuck!" he cursed, even as Dean swung his ever-trusty shotgun to bear.

"My turn!" he yelled, getting the Tyrant's attention.

BOOM!

The buckshot smacked into the giant's left shoulder, and its arm was pushed back from the impact of the blast, stalling the monster's stride for a brief moment, but it corrected its step in an instant. Again, the ripped flesh on its arm repaired itself in an instant, even as Dean racked another shell into his weapon, his nerves starting to show.

"Tough one, ain't you?" he asked, firing another round into the Tyrant's gut. The monster didn't even react as blood burst from its stomach. Ben aimed again and squeezed down the trigger, firing a sustained burst into the Tyrant's body that chewed into its side and up towards its face. The AK clicked on empty after a few seconds, and he reached for a fresh magazine as Dean fired another load of buckshot, this time into the giant's visage.

The Tyrant reacted this time, taking a sudden step backwards and clutching at its face, thrashing about as blood spilled onto the floor.

"You felt that one, didn't you?" taunted Dean, feeling some victory at having visibly wounded the dammed thing. Next to him, Ben glanced up, past the Tyrant's massive frame, but he couldn't see anything.

Donovan had vanished, seemingly into thin air.

"Damn it!" he cursed.

"What?" asked Dean.

"He's gone!" cried Ben back. "That damned slippery bastard!"

"We got bigger things to worry about-" started Dean, before he suddenly dived into cover behind a nearby workstation. Ben looked at him confused, and then looked back up in time to see the now-recovered Tyrant lifting up a steel sample case effortlessly with one hand, preparing to toss it. Ben's eyes widened, before he suddenly dived away as well, in time as the monster threw the object it held, which whistled over Ben's head and smashed into the wall far behind them, crumpling like a soda can.

Ben looked around at the large dent which had appeared in the wall then back towards the Tyrant, which was already reached for something else to throw, its stony face remaining vacant despite the blood which was smeared across its visage. Without another moment's hesitation, he raised his rifle and snapped off a few more shots, some of them striking the bottles of various chemicals on the desk near to the Tyrant. One of them suddenly exploded in a cloud of glass fragments and chemical vapours, spraying onto the monster's arm. It quickly withdrew the limb back, deep black burns covering the green material of its coat as the flames quickly rushed across the work station surface.

"Yeah, you burn you son of a bitch!" he yelled, as he pulled himself to his feet, before he felt a hand grab onto his shoulder and start to pull him back. He turned back to look into Dean's panicked face.

"The Daylight!" he yelled suddenly, pointing. Ben turned his head in time to see the rushing flames consume the carry case containing the white vials. Within seconds, the glass vials started to shatter under the intense heat.

"Damn it!" cursed Ben, knowing that if they could at least got one sample out of the city it would've been a real boon to those lined against Umbrella.

"We're leaving now!" he yelled, loud enough for Ben to hear him. "That thing's like a damned brick wall! We got what we needed, so let's go!"

"I'm inclined to agree," said Ben in a droll manner, as he saw the Tyrant recover, giving the two humans a withering glare as it stepped forward, and used its burnt arm to easily overturn the desk just next to it, before tossing the heavy furniture across to the opposite side of the room. It crashed into the wall and folded in two as though it were made of paper.

"Oh fuck…" whispered Ben, just as Dean started to pull him back.

"Go!" yelled Dean, as the two of them scrambled and sprinted towards the doors leading out of the main lab, the hollow footsteps of the Tyrant following behind them in a steady fashion. The giant trod on the discarded P8 that Donovan had been using, crushing the handgun like a discarded soda can.

The two cops tore down one of the narrow halls, before Dean turned a corner and dove into one of the smaller labs they had passed by before, the one with the T-Virus samples lying on the desktop. Dean immediatly threw himself underneath the desk, although Ben was somewhat hesitant to do so, seeing as how they were directly next to numerous deadly viral samples, being chased by something that liked smashing everything in reach. It didn't exactly make him feel any more comfortable.

CRASH!

He turned his head in time to catch a glimpse of one of the massive steel doors they had just passed through come skidding down the passageway, almost bent in two with incredible force.

"Holy shit," he whispered, just as he felt Dean grab onto his arm and pull him underneath the desk.

"Stay down and shut up!" hissed Dean, just as some new sounds were heard: deep, rhythmic thuds of foot steps, closing in on their position. Did the damned thing have some sixth sense or something?

"It's close," he whispered, clutching his AK-47 close to him in case he had to use it very soon.

"Shhh," hissed Dean, and the two men held their breath, as the sounds came closer and closer to their current position.

Within a few seconds, the sounds were almost deafening, and then the massive figure finally came into view, its shadow falling over them like an eclipse of the sun as it rounded the corner and began to move closer to the cubicle entrance. Ben stared up at its massive frame, its arms like tree trunks, the bullet holes from their first encounter still marking its green coat, but the pale flesh beneath was unbroken, as though nothing had happened in the first place. He then moved his gaze up towards its bald head, and he could see the thick veins that crossed its temples and even the ugly surgical scars that covered the back of its skull, the remnants of hasty stitching still visible, as though someone had cut open its skull and removed its brain on more than one occasion-

The Tyrant stopped directly outside the entrance to the lab cubicle.

_Oh god no…_

It just stood on the spot, staring straight ahead down the corridor, as though pondering its next course of action, though he wondered exactly how smart this thing was. It didn't seem to understand the concept of running, for one thing, but if it had stopped outside the room they were in, did it sense them hiding there somehow?

It was so quiet too. The thing didn't even seem to be breathing normally, but he perked his ears up, and he could hear the faint sound of it breathing in an out, just a passive, abnormally calm intake and outtake of breath. The monster's huge fists, like chunks of rock, remained clenched tightly, as if always ready to smash anything blocking its path.

Dean kept his breath held, even as beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, and he felt the dampness gather in his armpits. He always thought that Barry Burton was a great bear of a man, but this thing made the former S.T.A.R.S member look like almost weedy in comparison. This thing looked like one of those body-building obsessed-freaks who bulked up on a steady diet of steroids. His grip tightened on his shotgun, his knuckles turning white.

_Move, for god's sake…move…_

The Tyrant remained rooted to the spot, just outside the room, as if daring them to show themselves-

And then, it turned slightly and walked away down a nearby junction, its footsteps echoing throughout the maximum security area. Once they had faded away somewhat, the two men finally breathed out, in massive relief. They remained quiet for a few seconds, and then looked at one another.

"That…was too close," sighed Dean.

"You could say that again," whispered Ben. "But that damned thing took a whole magazine and didn't even flinch! What the hell's that all about?"

"Donovan said those things are the pinnacle of their research with the T-Virus," replied Dean. "So in other words, it's our worst nightmare. And just when we're a stone's throw away from getting out of here."

"Great," muttered Ben. "But it doesn't know how to run, so that's an advantage for us at least. We could probably make it to the train if we ran for it."

"That sounds like a plan," agreed Dean, checking his person, "cause I don't think I got enough bullets left to take that damned 'Tyrant' or whatever its called down…or anything else that's still running about in here."

"Typical," said Ben bitterly. "We have the means to get out of here and we can't even do that easily with that freak wandering around out there!"

As if to compound their troubles further, an alarm sounded, and a cool female voice could be heard.

"B.O.W breach detected. Activating lock over-ride." And then there was the hydraulic hiss of several nearby doors being released, along with the soft moaning of several zombies. Somewhere overhead, red lights strobed on and off.

"Damn it, now the zombies have been let out to play," groaned Ben.

CRASH!

The two of them jumped when they heard what sounded like a wall being smashed down from somewhere nearby, closely followed by a wet 'smack' sound, as though someone had smashed a watermelon with a baseball bat. Then they heard a weak moaning. They figured that a few zombies had ran into their bald-headed friend. Another wet smack was heard, like cream pudding being spilt across the sidewalk, and the thud of a body hitting the floor.

"I think its time we left…now," urged Ben. Dean just nodded in agreement, as the two friends struggled to their feet quietly.

* * *

Malcolm Donovan hurried down the secret corridor, its walls and ceilings lined with dozens of steam and water pipes, and numerous electrical cables as thick as his arm. He'd had this passage, along with a few others like it, built during the summer two years ago, in case of emergencies such as this, and he was the only one who had intimate knowledge of these passages- yet another secret kept from his fellow staff.

His lip had finally stopped bleeding, but the pain continued to throb as he moved, along with the still-lingering agony in his groin region and lower left leg, causing him to move with a slight limp.

Dean and Ben…they'd both pay for what they'd done to him, to his facility. Stealing the daylight from him and using it for their own need, their own selfish needs. Their words continued to ring around inside his head, calling him a 'spineless weasel', among other things.

"You'll both pay for this…" he whispered dryly, as he rounded a corner and kept moving, his destination not far ahead.

But he would have the last laugh: the Tyrant had been released, and they had been right when they said it would ignore any Umbrella personnel in the area: it had ignored him completely, even though he had been making a fair amount of noise at the time, and most Umbrella B.O.W's were attracted to noise. He was dismayed at how slow it had moved upon initial release, but he knew that this was only because it had been in cold storage for so long, and soon enough it would be thawed out enough to show the true extent of its abilities. Then it would crush them both.

And in the meantime he would get away. This passage would lead him directly to the train platform, and to his ultimate route of escape, meaning that he would be able to bypass the use of the master key to get into the station area, and in theory just take the train and leave the damned place behind. But he couldn't leave just yet though; not without getting at least some measure of revenge against those two bastards.

"Just you wait…" he muttered to himself. "I'll show you just what a spineless weasel I am," he continued, laughing in a demented manner, his footsteps echoing down the lonely passage.

* * *

They passed by a lone dead zombie, its head nearly twisted off from where an incredibly powerful force had slammed it against the wall it slumped up against. A bloody smear covered the wall from where its skull had made contact, down to the ground. Apparently, the Tyrant was destroying anything which got in its way, regardless to whether they were human or otherwise. The guy was merciless, to say the least.

At the far end of the hallway, another pair of zombies loitered, moaning weakly, clearly not having noticed them yet. Their path here seemed to have taken them forever, as they checked every corner several times, their ears perked up in case their big bald 'friend' was to reappear. And along the way they could now see that the previously locked doors were now open, due to the Tyrant's escape beforehand.

"Leave them," whispered Ben, noting Dean's uneasy posture. "They don't know we're here."

"I know," replied Dean, looking down his shotgun sights towards the wasted figures. "Can't take any chances though."

"Come on," said Ben, starting to walk away towards the area exit. Dean followed after him, walking backwards to keep his gaze fixed on the passage just behind them, and the two loitering zombies. They had barely made it 15 feet when the situation changed.

CRASH!

The glass and partition wall about 10 feet behind the zombies suddenly exploded, showering the floor in shards of glass and sending a cloud of dust billowing down towards them. Dean covered his face instinctively, and Ben was nearly knocked off of his feet as the entire corridor shook. The zombies barely flinched though, even as Dean saw the outline of a massive figure approaching, the floor shaking with each step it took.

"Oh geez!" muttered Ben as he recovered from the shock.

The Tyrant appeared through the dust, its face as expressionless as it was the first time it had appeared. The two zombies turned towards it, just as it bought one of its arms back and backhanded the first undead blocking its path across the face. The poor monster was thrown sideways with bone-breaking force, smashing it straight through the partition wall and breaking several of its bones in the process. It had barely come to rest when the Tyrant launched a follow-up punch with its other arm, snapping the second zombie's head back and killing it instantly. It collapsed to the ground, as the Tyrant kept on its relentless march, its gaze fixed upon the two humans before it. Its massive boots crushed the fallen body of the second zombie as though it were nothing.

"Oh crap!" blurted Dean, firing his shotgun down the corridor. The wide spread smacked across the Tyrant's chest, but the brute barely flinched, even as its coat started to tear under the gunfire. He fired a couple more rounds, but the Tyrant kept coming. "We gotta get out of here!"

"Move!" yelled Ben suddenly, shoving Dean out of the way, before he tipped a heavy oxygen tank standing near to the position onto the ground, the heavy 'thunk' of it landing sounding down the passage. Just as quickly as he had shifted it, Ben planted his foot in the middle of the tank and pushed it away, sending it rolling away towards the Tyrant, which continued to approach in its slow, methodical manner. A third zombie wandered out from a side junction in front of the brute, and was quickly killed as the Tyrant's arm shot out like a whip, gripping the former scientists head in its huge fingers and smashing it against the nearby wall, smushing it like a grape.

The tank was only a few feet away from the Tyrant when Ben took aim and fired.

BOOM!

A blazing fireball suddenly swallowed the Tyrant and several feet of corridor, sending a rush of sheer heat down towards Ben and Dean, who were nearly thrown off of their feet by the sensation hitting them in the face.

"Come on, let's go!" yelled Ben, pulling Dean backwards, not even stopping to see if they Tyrant was still coming after them, as flames licked along the passageway towards them. Dean tried to discern anything through the billowing fire and smoke, but it proved impossible, and he was soon dragged out of sight by Ben anyway.

A few moments later, they passed by Donovan's office and pushed through the heavy double doors leading into the facility's entrance, the alarms still blaring above them. They spent a few more precious moments pushing the doors shut once again, trying to buy themselves as much time as possible.

"Go, go!" urged Dean as Ben made a bee-line for the door leading to the facility's west wing, red lights still strobing above them. He slammed into the door and tried to prise it open, but it didn't budge. He stared, eyes wide in shock, and tried pulling again, but to no avail.

"It's locked!" he cried, pulling at the door.

"Oh you have to be shitting me!" cried Dean, running over to try and help Ben open it up, but even with both of them pulling it didn't even budge.

"What the hell is this?" wailed Ben, even as that cool female voice was heard once more, this time reciting a different pre-recorded line.

"_Attention: facility lockdown in effect. Biohazardous contamination detected. Locks will be released in due course, __all biohazard containment staff please report to the maximum security area."_

"Goddammit!" cried Ben. "It never ends!"

"Come on, there has to be some way we can get through!" cried Dean back, pulling out the master key and trying to see if there was some place it would fit on the door lock, but there wasn't anything that could potentially help them.

"Now what?" asked Ben. "We stay here and wait for that thing to catch up to us?" Dean opened his mouth to say something when a dull metallic sound suddenly reverberated throughout the room, causing them both to jump.

He looked back towards the double doors into the maximum security area, and saw that one of the great steel structures was actually marked, a steel dent about the size of a bowling ball visible just above the door's handle. Then there was another dull thud, and yet another dent appeared in the door, close to the first one.

_Oh God…_

"Dammit, it's trying to bust the door down!" yelled Ben, as yet another dent appeared in the thick steel, quickly followed by two more in rapid succession. The doors shook with each impact, and Dean doubted that they could hold for much longer, despite being at least 12 inches thick each.

"Guess we don't have much of a choice," said Dean, reaching for his shotgun and readying it, checking how much ammo he had left on his person; and finding he didn't have that much: 8 shells in the weapon, and about 20 spare (including several enhanced shells given to him by Mac from the U.B.C.S), though he still had a few speed loaders left for his M29 magnum and plenty of ammo for his Beretta as well (though he hardly thought a 9mm handgun would even effect that beast when his shotgun didn't even make it flinch).

"You're not serious?" asked Ben, realising what Dean was implying. "You saw fine well how that thing just shrugged off those times we shot it!" Another resounding thud punctuated that statement, and they glanced over towards the doors again. One of them was starting to bend outwards now, under the sheer power of the blows being rained down against it.

"Well we can't get out, that's for sure," reasoned Dean, as the doors shook once more. "But if this thing wants to try and kill us, then its going to have to try pretty damned hard to do so!" Yet another blow smashed into the steel, and the door peeled away a little more, revealing the scene on the other side, and Dean caught a glimpse of the giant's granite-like face, as it started to draw back for yet another blow. It came shortly after, the steel warping like bread dough in the oven.

"Fine," sighed Ben, pulling back the bolt on his AK-47. "I got sick and tired of taking the softly softly approach for so long anyways! Let's give him hell!"

"That's more like it," said Dean with a smile, just as the towering behemoth gained access.

_Crash!_

The door smashed in off of its hinges, flying across the room at high speed and smashing against the closed doors they had initially arrived by the previous day. Ben and Dean ducked down and covered their heads as the door was twisted and warped into a random chunk of steel embedded through the closed doors, preventing anyone from leaving that way again. Dean uncovered his head in time to see the Tyrant step into the room, the top of its head catching on the doorframe and warping the steel around it, but the towering beast showed no sign of feeling it.

The brute was still in one piece, though its coat was blackened and singed in several places, presumably from when Ben had exploded the oxygen tank right in its face. Its fists were still clenched tightly as it stared right at the two humans, and Dean thought he could sense an immeasurable amount of rage pent up behind those glowing white orbs. The Tyrant took a single step towards them, before it swung one of its arms, sending a steel crate flying as though it were made of matchsticks. The crate smashed against the far wall and crumpled instantly, and the Tyrant continued its relentless march.

The two friends looked at one another and shared a nod. They had no choice now: they either had to fight back against this brute, or risk being killed brutally.

Both men peeled off from one another in different directions, Ben approaching their opponent head on while Dean approached it from its left. Since he had the shotgun, he had to get closer to maximise the use of his weapon. Ben opened fire, sending a stream of gunfire into the Tyrant's broad chest and up into its left shoulder.

The monster's arm flinched back from the attack, before it raised its other arm in front of its face to shield itself from a tight burst of rounds aimed for its face that instead ripped up the side of the limb. Ben's rifle clicked on empty shortly afterwards, and the Tyrant stepped forward before swinging its massive fist towards his face. He was able to duck down in time, though he still felt the breeze pass over the top of his head, sending him tumbling to the ground. He looked up wide-eyed at the monster as it looked down at him with its glowing eyes, before it raised both arms above its head to ready a hammer-blow attack that would very likely kill him.

BOOM!

A shotgun blast rang out, hitting the creature in the back of its skull, and it rocked forward, blood spraying from the wound. Cursing freely, Ben took his moment and rolled out of the way, just as its fists came down, smashing a crater nearly six inches deep in the thick steel. The Tyrant remained in a crouched pose for a few moments, and Dean took the opportunity to unload a couple of more shells into its back. The Tyrant didn't even flinch as it rose back to its feet and slowly turned to face Dean, who racked a fresh shell into his weapon, before taunting the monster with his left hand, making a 'bring it on' gesture. The monster seemed to understand this and bought its left arm back before taking a wide swing towards him, clearing at least 8 feet with a single stride.

"Woah!" cried Dean as he rolled away in time to dodge the wrecking-ball like fist coming at him, barely missing him. He was about to rise back to his feet, but the Tyrant raised its leg with a speed belying its size, and booted him in the back. Dean felt himself thrown forwards with great force, before he hit the ground and slid along several feet, before he crashed ribs-first into a wall and finally came to a rest. He moaned in pain and writhed about, before he remembered the situation he was in and looked over towards the Tyrant, which continued to approach him in slow, purposeful strides. He could hear the cracks of Ben firing his AK, but the monster seemed to ignore the assault as it advanced on the target directly before it.

He scuttled back on his rear, as the Tyrant swung its left fist, knocking over another storage crate that was in its way. Soon enough it was towering over Dean, reaching its hand down towards his face, fingers opened as it prepared to crush his head like a grape. In time, he managed to swing his shotgun around, aiming it into the giant's face.

BOOM!

The Tyrant staggered back, blood spraying from its face, and Dean suddenly had an opportunity to escape, rolling off to the side and scrambling back to his feet, moving around another stack of storage crates to keep as much distance from the Tyrant as possible. The brute's face wound had healed in an instant though, and it was soon turning after him once more, its face still showing a vacant expression.

"Dean, you allright?" cried Ben from the opposite side of the room, clicking a fresh magazine into his AK.

"I'm fine!" yelled Dean back, as the Tyrant kicked a smaller storage crate forwards, causing it to slide smoothly across the floor and nearly taking Dean's legs out from beneath him, forcing him to hop over it. "That was too close though!" he then added, before unloading some buckshot into the Tyrant's chest region.

Across the opposite side of the room, Ben cursed as he watched the seemingly unstoppable giant striding towards his friend. Somehow, he doubted they had enough ammo to drop this freak for good, seeing as how he seemed to heal his wounds as quick as they were inflicting them. He moved back a few feet, and his foot clicked against something lying on the ground. He looked back and down, and finally saw what it was inside the numerous storage crates in this room.

Guns. Lots of guns, ranging from sub-machine guns and assault rifles, and even an RBG-6 grenade launcher, which was what he had knocked up against just now. Countless weapons, now lying scattered around the room, as though the people here were preparing for World War III.

_What the-?_

He wasn't about to question why they had all those guns down here, as right now anything that would give them an edge against their monstrous opponent would be useful, as he saw Dean barely dodge a right hook aimed at his face, and then swerve back to dodge a follow-up haymaker. Ben stooped down and scooped the grenade launcher up in his hands, before flicking the cylinder open and checking that it was loaded.

"Dean, get out of there!" he yelled, and Dean turned in time to see his friend aiming a grenade launcher, eyes wide. Then he flung himself forward, diving to the ground with his hands clamped over his head. The Tyrant glanced up in time to see Ben aiming the explosive weapon towards it. He pulled the trigger, and there was a quiet 'thump' as the weapon fired off an explosive round, whistling across the room trailing smoke.

BOOM!

The round impacted against the Tyrant's upper chest, consuming most of its body in a brief burst of flame and smoke, and he clearly saw the creature stagger backwards a few steps, finally showing some visible signs of being affected by weapons fire. The smoke cleared and he saw the brute was still in one piece, albeit with its coat blackened more than it had been before, its expression still the same.

"Where the hell did you get that from?" barked Dean as he struggled back to his feet.

"In the crate," replied Ben, motioning towards the opened storage box, and the numerous firearms littered around it. "It looks as though they were stocking up a hell of a lot of ordinance for some reason." He pulled the trigger again, striking the Tyrant with another explosive shell which made it stagger backwards a few more steps. Dean looked around in surprise at the countless weapons lying here and there.

"Well anything that can help us now," replied Dean, reaching down and grabbing an M4A1 rifle out of the crate, complete with an attached holographic sight on the top barrel casing. Their hulking opponent had already recovered from the grenades, grabbing a small carry case from the top of the nearby stack of crates and tossing it towards them like a football. Both of them moved in separate directions, and the case smacked off of the steel wall behind them harmlessly.

Ben moved around the right side of the room, as Dean moved to the left, firing off short bursts from his recently-acquired M4 rifle, drawing blood as the bullets made impact across the giant's chest, while Ben continued firing grenades. The first shot hit the Tyrant in the gut, forcing it to nearly fall forward doubled-over, but the creature recovered in time and crossed its arms in front of its face in time to absorb a second grenade, the blast still forcing the giant back a few steps but shielding its face from most of the fire and shrapnel.

Dean crossed over to the Tyrant's flank and aimed down the holographic sight, putting a few precise bursts into the side of the creature's bald skull, making it snap its head to the side, before turning to fixate its gaze on Dean, its emotionless stare making it impossible to tell whether it had been angered by the attack or not. Distracted, it no longer had its defences up, and Ben promptly took the chance to unload the final two grenades in the RBG-6's cylinder into the monster's back.

The first round hit it between the shoulders, forcing it to slump forward suddenly, and then the final round hit it directly on the back of its skull, and the giant was finally forced all the way forwards onto its hands and knees, its sheer weight warping the steel flooring as its fists threatened to sink into the very ground.

"Yes, that's it!" yelled Dean, as he took the opportunity to unload the remainder of his M4A1 ammo into the fallen giant's skull, with Ben tossing the empty grenade launcher aside, then bringing his AK-47 to bear again, unloading into whatever part of the Tyrant he could see. Gunfire ripped through skin and bone, but just as quickly its T-Virus endowed metabolism healed the wounds in an instant. Ben grimly wondered what they would need to put this brute down for good.

The Tyrant remained in its crouched posture for several more seconds, before it finally reacted, punching its fists into the floor as though taking out some of its frustrations. Then it grunted, lifting both arms high above its head, before bringing them both down in a hammer blow against the floor. The entire room shook under the powerful blow, and Dean and Ben both felt the world beneath their feet shift suddenly, knocking them both onto their backs. Ben fell near to a moderately-high stack of crates, and had to throw his hands up in time to stop a small box from falling on his face. He breathed out in relief as he pushed it aside, then looked up to see the Tyrant rise to its feet again, the back of its coat almost burnt to a charcoal thanks to those grenade blasts from before hand.

He turned his head and saw the nearest box to him lying open, with AK-47 magazines spilling out onto the steel floor. Blessing his luck, he reached out and gathered a few of them close to him, before storing them away somewhere convenient, preparing himself to rejoin the battle once more.

Dean propped himself back to his feet, his body still sore from where he had fallen, though strangely enough he didn't seem fatigued. He knew that the virus seemed to be slowing him down earlier, making him tire out a lot quicker, but now he felt as though he could go 10 rounds with a heavyweight boxer. And he would need that energy now, considering what they were fighting against, he stooped quickly and retrieved another M4 rifle.

He turned to see the Tyrant approaching him from around a stack of fallen crates, its strides seeming to be a little faster than normal. Its expression remained as solid as granite, despite the grenade soot and dried blood that was smeared across its face. He raised the M4 to bear, and pulled down the trigger, unloading most of the magazine into the brute's chest at near point-blank range, splattering everything in range with thick blood.

The Tyrant suddenly seemed to speed up, stepping right up in front of Dean and swinging its right fist, swatting the rifle out of Dean's hands with ease. He cursed and looked up into the monster's eyes, glaring down at him with unquenchable anger. He quickly reached for his shotgun, but the sudden movement caused the giant's other arm to shoot out like a whip, clamping down around his throat with a vice-like grip

He almost instantaneously felt his breathing cut off, even as the Tyrant effortlessly lifted him off of the ground, his feet dangling at least 6 inches from the steel flooring. He gagged and gasped for air, as he peered down at the granite face of the monster, its expression remaining passive as it literally squeezed the life from him. He could see his vision starting to darken too, and he kicked frantically at the Tyrant's broad chest, but he might as well have been kicking a brick wall.

_So this is how it ends, _he thought to himself, as he could feel himself growing weaker and weaker, as the Tyrant raised its right fist, preparing for the finishing blow.

RAT-A-TAT-A-TAT!

The blazing roar of an AK-47 was heard, and the Tyrant convulsed as bullets ripped into its back, releasing its hold on Dean's neck somewhat. His sight cleared, and he knew that this was the opportunity he needed to free himself from the giant's grasp. Swinging his right leg around to the right, he then bought it back around, lifting it as high as he could manage, striking the Tyrant in its granite-like face with as much force as he could muster.

The monster's head snapped to the side, and it relinquinshed its grip finally, dropping Dean to the floor, who immediately started gasping and gagging for air, clutching a hand to his sore neck as he pulled himself back on his elbows. He glanced around and saw Ben standing on the opposite side of the room, clutching his AK-47.

"You OK, man?" he called, but quickly turned his attention away when he saw the Tyrant turning towards him, tossing a heavy storage box as though it were a football being tossed. Ben rolled out of the attack's trajectory and immediately started firing again as he rose to his feet, giving Dean a chance to recover. Dean struggled to his feet, leaning against a nearby box to steady himself and let himself recover, staring intently at the creatures back as it advanced implacably. Knowing he would need the superior firepower, he removed the blue enhanced shells from his side pack and loaded them into his shotgun, so the weapon was fully loaded with the powerful ammunition.

"Enough of this shit!" he then growled, fixing his aim on the back of the Tyrant.

BOOM!

The shotgun erupted with a thunderous voice, and the sheer power of the blast forced him to take a couple of steps backwards, while the Tyrant's upper body lurched forward, blood bursting from the wound gouged in its flesh from the shotgun blast. It swung around to face him, its flailing fists sending another box crashing against the far wall. The sheer noise of the blast nearly caused Ben to jump out of his skin as well, not expecting his friend to use such a powerful ammunition.

"Have another!" yelled Dean, blasting the monster yet again, sending it staggering back a single step. Not wanting to let the advantage pass by, he continued to fire, unloading five more shells into the Tyrant's broad chest, each shot forcing the towering monster to back away a small distance and jetting blood into the air, but failing to knock it from its feet. The final shot was delivered to the giant's collarbone, just below its chin, and the Tyrant was nearly thrown backwards off of its feet by the shot, instead crashing against a wall and leaving a large indentation where it had made impact. A couple of steel wall panels fell to the ground around where the Tyrant had impacted.

"Holy shit," muttered Ben, standing off to the side.

"How'd you like that?" yelled Dean as he cocked the shotgun one handed and the final used shell spiralled away.

The Tyrant remained stuck in the wall for a few seconds, as its torso slowly stitched itself back into one piece, before the brute looked straight up at him, its eyes seeming to glow even more fiercely within its skull. Though its expression remained the same, he wondered if he had managed to piss the dammed thing off. He wouldn't be surprised, after the amount of damage they had inflicted so far. The Tyrant turned its head to the side, before smashing its fist through the wall, and ripping out a thick bundle of electrical cables, blue sparks still emanating from the severed end. Then it punched through again and ripped out a large section of steel plating, exposing even more cabling and piping behind the wall, completely ignoring the two humans it had been fighting.

"What the hell is he doing?" cried Ben as he stood off to the side, his AK-47 readied in case the monster was to try anything, while Dean just casually reloaded his shotgun.

The Tyrant finally punched its fist once more right through the centre of a length of steel piping six inches thick, splitting it in half and spraying water all over itself, showing it had just smashed through one of the facility's water supply pipes. It then took hold of one of the pipe ends and pulled with incredible force, wrenching it free from its housing and spraying even more water across the floor. It then turned to face them, wielding the length of pipe like a baseball bat, before smacking it against the ground a few times, flattening out the twisted end of the piping, before fixing its burning gaze on Dean once more.

"Aw crap!" he cursed, just as the Tyrant started walking, swinging its pipe back and forth in a random manner, scattering everything before it like bowling pins, and Ben was barely able to get out of the way of a wooden crate that sailed over his head and shattered against the wall, while Dean wasn't quite fast enough as a steel box was sent sliding across the floor at him, catching him in the side of his right knee (the exact same leg he had kicked the damned thing with) and sending him falling to the ground.

He gasped in pain as he hit the deck, but quickly had to roll over and look behind him as the Tyrant appeared almost right on top of him, clutching its recently acquired pipe, eager to smash his head in. It was obvious now that the Tyrant was advancing a lot faster than it had done when it was first unleashed: though it still moved at a steady walk, those strides were getting further and faster as the battle drew on, probably due to the fact it was starting to defrost from its cold storage. Which just made it harder for them, as the giant raised its pipe above its head in both hands and swung it down.

Cursing, Dean rolled to his left, and the pipe smashed down, leaving a small crater in the ground where his head had been barely a second before. He didn't have much time to recover as the Tyrant then lifted the pipe and swung down once more, this time one-handed, and Dean had to roll the opposite direction to avoid yet another heavy blow which left another crater in the floor, and then back to the left to avoid another quick follow-up blow, barely avoiding each fatal strike.

He finished flat on his back, staring up at the brute which raised its weapon high once more, intending to end it here and now with a single fatal strike. Pulling himself back on his arms, he pulled out his recently-acquired M29 magnum and aimed right into the Tyrant's face.

BANG!

The ear-splitting weapon discharge was quickly followed by a jet of crimson fluid spraying into the air from the B.O.W's face, and the creature staggered backwards several feet, shooting one hand up to clutch its bleeding face. Taking the chance, Dean scuttled backwards a little further and then got to his feet, retrieving his shotgun as well, though keeping his M29 drawn for the time being, after seeing the damage it had done with just one single shot compared to his other weapons.

_Time you earned your keep, _he thought, looking down at the powerful revolver.

"You've got a habit of getting yourself into some scrapes, don't you?" joked Ben from the opposite side of the room as he unloaded his AK into the reeling Tyrant's back. Dean ignored him as he took aim with his magnum, making sure to hold on tightly with both hands and planting his feet firmly on the ground to make sure the recoil wouldn't affect him too badly. He aimed at the giant's broad chest and pulled the trigger, nearly toppling it over from the sheer energy of the shot. The monster's flailing pipe smashed through a cluster of empty steel drums, knocking them over with a loud clatter. Dean fired another shot, and the Tyrant staggered a little further back, before it suddenly recovered and swung its pipe around in a wide arc in front of it, forcing Dean to hop back in time to avoid being crippled by the heavy blow. He still felt the breeze nip at his stomach though.

Ben continued firing into the back of the Tyrant's skull, and the brute whirled around in response, lifting one of its massive feet and kicking out at a fallen oil drum lying at its feet, sending it rolling at high speed towards Ben, who had to throw himself out of the path of the rolling object as it crashed against the far wall, and then had to roll to the side on the floor as the Tyrant stepped forwards and swung its pipe downwards, smashing another deep hole through the floor.

"Woah!" cried Ben, trying to scurry further back, but the numerous fallen crates and barrels in the room limited his room somewhat, and he was gradually backing himself into a corner. He glanced at the solid wall behind him and cursed freely, as the Tyrant's shadow loomed over him, reaching down for him with its free hand.

BANG!

The retort of a magnum handgun was heard, and the Tyrant shuddered as the round tore through its back and was halted by the monster's enhanced bone structure. The creature swung around again to face Dean, who stood with his M29 aimed at the monster's broad chest.

"Remember me?" he asked mockingly as the Tyrant started to move away from Ben, who breathed out a huge sigh of relief as the monster's shadow disappeared from view.

Bringing its arms back, the Tyrant took a huge step forwards and tossed its pipe towards Dean, who barely had enough time to hit the floor just as the object sailed past him, spinning end over end, and embedded itself through the steel wall behind the human, spearing through the thick material easily. He looked up at it, gasping for breath, knowing that if that object had hit him, it would likely have shattered eveyr bone in his body and killed him instantly. He struggled back to his feet to confront his opponent once more.

The Tyrant marched towards Dean now, kicking a fallen oil drum towards him with huge force, nearly putting a hole straight through the object, and Dean had to throw himself sideways in order to get out of the way. Then getting to his feet as fast as he could manage, he aimed his magnum once again and fired his penultimate shot in the loader, sending up a jet of blood from the Tyrant's head, but it barely reacted this time, and he wondered if it was because the damned thing was enraged. Even Ben's constant AK-47 fire directed upon its back did nothing to distract or even slow down the monster as it beared down on Dean.

"One shot left," he whispered to himself, letting the giant come a little closer before he risked the last shot, so it wouldn't miss. He waited until the brute was barely six feet away, bringing its right arm back for a powerful haymaker punch, before he pulled the trigger.

BANG!

The bullet hit the monster in its left eye, gouging the organ out and erupting out the side of its skull, but even though the Tyrant's head bent backwards, its fist still continued on its course, striking him right in the middle of his torso.

He barked out a cough as a force akin to an articulated truck smacking into him coursed through his body, flinging him backwards against the door that was still locked. He collided shoulders-first with the door and crumpled to the ground, as the empty magnum went flying out of his hands and landed several feet away out of reach.

"Dean!" cried Ben, rushing forwards to aid his friend, but being struck in the chest by one of the Tyrant's flailing fists and sending him backwards, crashing hard into a heavy steel box and nearly knocking him out. The Tyrant staggered back a few steps, clutching one hand to its face as blood continued to pour from where its eye used to be. Eventually, the creature lowered its hand and shook its head, letting the last drops of bright crimson fluid drain from its face. Then it finally raised its head, the ugly scar that ran across the side of its temple closing itself up, though the monster's eye did not regenerate, just leaving a gaping hole where the organ should have been.

But it also looked as though the monster was visibly angered now, as a frown crossed its seemingly immoveable face, and it approached the fallen human in front of it, intent on crushing its skull like a grape. Lying flat on his face, Dean could only groan quietly as he tried to push himself back to his feet, the images of massive feet in front of him blurring into multiple copies.

A short distance away, Ben watched the Tyrant closing in on his friend, his heart plunging. He tried to move, but intense pain flared up and down the side of his body where he had been punched into that steel crate, and he sank to his knees, resisting the urge to scream out. He looked up, but couldn't see his AK anywhere. All he had on him was his Beretta, and he doubted that would slow the monster down much, just annoy it a little. As he stared at the Tyrant's broad back, helpless to do anything, that sinister voice in his head, the one he had not heard for so long, piped up again.

_Oh what a shame, Benjamin, _it taunted. _Once again, another of your good friends is to meet his brutal death…and once again, you're too spineless to stand up and help them._

He said nothing. What could he do? After all, he had been powerless when most of his R.P.D colleagues had been wiped out at that damned barricade on Raccoon Street. And he had been powerless when the civilians under his protection after escaping the station fell to those bug monsters…when Simon was killed, his blood drained from him as he was still live and screaming. All of those times, he had been stood on the sidelines, powerless to do anything…or unwilling to do anything?

_You spineless coward…maybe you should just DIE Benjamin- then the rest of the world would be spared your incompetence. _

"N-no," he whispered, forcing himself into a standing position, even though he felt he would be sick from the pain. "N-not this time," he whispered, drawing his Beretta from his holster, requiring monumental effort to do so. He didn't even try and reach for his AK, knowing that would require far too much effort for his weary frame. He then forced himself to walk, one foot in front of the other, even as the Tyrant in front of him blurred into two, then three separate entities.

Dean groaned a bit louder and pushed his weary body off of the ground, just as an immense shadow fell across him, and he glanced up to see the Tyrant glaring down at him, its left eye now just an empty, bloody socket in its skull, but its right eye continued to burn furiously down at him. The rage in the creature's body was immeasurable, as it raised one of its huge boots, ready to smash his skull into a bloody pulp. He turned his head away and readied himself for the inevitable killing blow.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

A series of gunshots rang out, and the Tyrant flinched slightly, its foot missing Dean's head for a few inches as it crashed down, the creature turning around to face the source of this new attack.

Ben stood unsteadily on his feet several feet away, aiming his Beretta at the creature's head. Even from where he lay on the ground, Dean could see the look of determination on his face, despite the pain he must've been in.

"Dean! Get out of there!" he yelled, waving his arm, as the Tyrant started to stride after him.

"Ben, no!" cried Dean, hurrying to force himself to his feet, ignoring the pain coursing through his body.

Ben stood his ground as the Tyrant bared down on him, unloading the remainder of his magazine into its face and chest within a few seconds, determined to do as much damage as possible to the creature before the inevitable happened. Soon enough the weapon clicked on empty, and he reached for a fresh magazine, fumbling to slam it home just as the Tyrant was right up in his face.

The creature's left hand whipped around, backhanding the pistol out of Ben's hands suddenly, and he didn't have any time to steel himself before its other fist came up, striking him with the force of a wrecking ball across his left cheek. He cried out in pain, blood bursting from his mouth, just as the monster followed up with a crushing gut punch with its other arm. He felt himself lifted off of the ground a few inches, blood bursting out of his mouth once again as he cried out in agony, feeling something breaking in his body, before he promptly collapsed face-first to the steel floor, fresh waves of agony rushing through his body.

"BEN!" screamed Dean frantically, as he got to his feet and rushed to retrieve his magnum handgun, lying several feet away. As he scooped it up, he clicked the cylinder open and let the spent shell casings fall onto the ground, before rummaging through his side pack for a fresh speed loader.

Ben coughed out another load of blood from his mouth as he suddenly felt the Tyrant pull him up by the back of his jacket, before clamping one of its hands around his face, raising him off of the ground by several inches. He was barely able to lift his arms up high enough to try and prise the massive fist off him, but there was no chance of that, after that gut punch he had just sustained, shattering one of his ribs. He looked down into the creature's stony face, crossed with a serious frown, blood still marking its left eye socket where Dean had shot it with his magnum.

"Fuck…you…" gasped Ben, spitting blood into the Tyrant's face. In response, the creature just tightened its grip on Ben's head, and he could feel his face being constricted, threatening to pop like a gore-filled balloon if no-one came to his aid. Ben calmly closed his eyes and waited for the end to come.

BANG!

The thunderous retort of a magnum handgun was heard, and the Tyrant rocked forward, releasing its grip on Ben's head, who fell to the ground hard, barking out a cry of agony as he hit the hard surface.

The Tyrant turned to face Dean, who stood with his freshly-reloaded M29 magnum, staring the towering bald-headed freak down.

"Now you've gone too far, you goddamned badl-headed freak!" he yelled firmly, pulling the trigger again.

The round struck the Tyrant in the forehead, and the monster staggered back a few steps, blood jetting from his face. But Dean wasn't about to let the thing gain any time to recover, and he fired again, striking it in the face yet again and forcing it further backwards, away from his wounded friend. He unloaded two more shots, and the Tyrant was finally knocked from its feet, stumbling backwards over one of the oil drums it had scattered earlier and crashing onto its back, leaving a large indentation in the ground. But Dean wasn't finished yet, as he stepped closer towards the Tyrant, lowering his aim and unloading the final two shots into the creature's face, the blood jet from the final shot spraying onto his jeans.

He continued to stand, aiming his empty magnum at the Tyrant, as if urging it to rise up so he could unload another six rounds into its ugly mug, but the creature didn't move, blood continuing to flow from its recent wounds, totally covering its semi-ruined face. Finally, he offered himself the chance to relax, clicking open the cylinder and letting the spent casings fall, before clicking in a fresh speed loader. At that moment, the robotic female voice piped up again.

"_Lockdown lifted," _she stated, as the sound of heavy bolts sliding back and a high-pitched beeping tone was heard.

"Bit damned late for that," he spat, before looking back at the Tyrant's body. "Not much of a masterpiece now, are you?" he then asked aloud, as he snapped the cylinder shut, and then remembered Ben, who lay on his side, legs curled up into his chest, blood still leaking from the side of his mouth.

"Ben!" he called, running up and sliding down on his knees, next to his old friend. Ben looked up at him, his eyes half-closed.

"Sorry man," he whispered, trying to laugh. "Guess I was too slow…"

"Shut up!" snapped Dean, pulling out his first-aid spray and haemostat pills, pulling off Ben's jacket and tossing it aside, and he could now see the red stain on his shirt where he had been gut punched. Frantic, he tore the fabric of Ben's shirt apart and could see where blood was leaking from a tear in his skin.

"Think…I broke a rib…" sighed Ben, his face slashed with agony. Dean ignored him as he ripped the cap free from the spray, and then started to apply it to the open wound, wiping away most of the blood with his fingers, crimson soaking his hands. Ben grimaced as the spray took effect, hissing as it sealed the skin, but the spray would do little to heal any internal injuries he might have, so he had to try and get him somewhere with decent medical support. But considering where they were…that was doubtful.

"Leave me…" groaned Ben, eyes still closed. "I'll only…slow you…down-"

"Shut up!" half-screamed Dean, as he then sprayed the rest of the first-aid spray all over the rest of Ben's body, to alleviate any other aches or pains he must have been feeling. "I'm not leaving you behind, not when we're so close!" He then forced his friend to swallow the haemostat pills with some difficulty, still coughing out blood.

"Sorry Dean…" whispered Ben. "Had enough…of doing nothing…while everyone else…died…" Dean paused as those words sank in, and he realised why Ben had put himself in the line of danger so readily. Remembering how Ben had told him of how he had watched so many of his companions die while he was powerless to do anything. And he had finally drawn the line at watching his own best friend follow a similar fate.

"Either way, it was a fucking stupid thing to do!" retorted Dean. "You know fine well if we don't get you to a decent hospital, then you're a dead man walking! I cannot lose you now!" Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes.

"Guess I didn't…think…typical of...me," sighed Ben, before he laughed, being cut off as he coughed up another load of bloody phlegm.

"Yes, you're always a damned pain," laughed Dean, even through his grief and anger. "Now come on! We're both walking out of here alive." And with that, he carefully lifted one of Ben's arms over his shoulder, and slowly but surely helped him rise to his feet, being careful not to exacerbate any of his injuries. Ben held his free arm to his torso as he was raised up, and then perched, somewhat unsteadily, on his feet.

"You OK to walk?" asked Dean.

"I can…manage," muttered Ben, trying to open his eyes. "Lead…the way...Dean," he then added.

"Right," whispered Dean, his eyes now filled with that determination he was renowned for: focused on accomplishing the tasks set before him, no matter how impossible the odds. He began to approach the door leading to the west wing and towards the train station, half-supporting Ben with him. He took his time to carefully open the door, and then sidle through sideways, making sure not to catch Ben on the door frame as they did.

Once they were gone, silence fell within the entrance hall, now resembling a battle field with countless storage boxes and weapons scattered all over, and even a couple of spots where the wall panels had been smashed or torn aside by the Tyrant's assault. There was even the spot where the monster's thrown pipe weapon had punched straight through the steel wall panels like a spear. The Tyrant itself currently lay on its back, its granite face coated in its own blood, and no-one was there to witness the monster's wounds slowly starting to heal up once more…

* * *

"I'm a damned fool," said Travis, shaking his head as he sat on the hood of his pick-up truck.

"What makes you say that?" asked Cameron quietly, though he probably knew what the answer was going to be.

"Flipping out like that," replied Travis, "especially when the military's job is hard enough trying to keep all these people safe." He waved his hand before him, indicating the refugees that milled about to and fro, some of them looking as though their bodies and minds were in separate planes, and others tried to help out wherever they could to make things easier for their fellow refugees.

"The last citizens of Raccoon City," mused Travis. "Heaven knows we're not the only ones worried sick for someone we know, and I just acted as though the whole universe revolved around our plight and nothing else. So damned selfish…"

"Don't beat yourself up," replied Cameron, staring off into the horizon. "It's been a very long couple of days for everyone involved. Maybe you should take a nap."

"I'll catch up on my sleep once Dean and Ben are safe and well," replied the football star, taking note of a small scene not too far away from them. A lone soldier argued with a pair of men in black and yellow uniforms, the uniform of Raccoon's fire department. Just behind them was a small civilian chopper, in a white and blue colour pattern.

"Look, you can't fly up there!" argued the soldier, holding his hands up in a calming gesture as one of the fireman clambered into the chopper's cockpit and started fiddling with the controls. "It's restricted air space now!"

"Screw you and screw your restrictions!" retorted the other fireman, an African-American in his early thirties. "I've served this city for 10 years, and I'm not about to give up on it now!" As if to punctuate his point, the rotors of the chopper began to wind up, kicking up dust and litter.

"OK, we're good to go!" yelled the other fireman, and his companion turned to join him.

"Lieutenant Fletcher won't like this one bit!" continued the strung-out soldier.

"The Lieutenant can do what the hell he likes to us once we get back!" retorted the fireman, already starting to climb onto the chopper, taking the megaphone offered to him by his companion. "Hell, you can shoot us down for all I care, but I for one am not going to just stand by while more people could still be trapped in that nightmare!"

And with that, the helicopter started to rise up off of the ground, as the lone soldier just stood and watched them go, as the downdraft buffeted his clothes. Within a few minutes, the chopper had disappeared into the horizon, back towards the burning city, and the trooper shook his head, before removing his helmet and running a hand through his hair.

"Damn it," he then said, hurrying off to give Fletcher the bad news.

"Good to see someone still cares," noted Cameron.

"Not exactly easy for anyone to leave behind the place they've called home for so many years," added Travis. "They don't just want to stand by and let Raccoon burn to the ground…like these soldiers seem content to do so."

"Maybe Raccoon's a lost cause, that's why they're standing back," added Cameron.

"There's no such thing as lost causes, just lost confidences," replied Travis instantly.

"Woah, where'd that come from?" asked Cameron, surprised.

"What?" asked Travis mockingly. "You think the big burly football star could never say something philosophical?"

"Well I'm the one who works in the library," retorted Cameron, joking, but he shut up when he saw a familiar figure approaching. Travis turned his head and saw Lieutenant Fletcher crossing the grass towards them, his face passive. He quickly hopped down from the truck hood and straightened himself up.

"Gentlemen," said Fletcher as he came to a stop just before them. His voice was quiet and measured.

"Lieutenant, I'm sorry about before-" started Travis.

"Forget it," snapped Fletcher. "You're tired and anxious, it could happen to anyone." Travis was left speechless for a few moments, unsure what to make of what had just been said, if the Lieutenant was still pissed off at him, for berating the officer in front of his men.

"So what's going on, Lieutenant?" asked Cameron, moving the conversation along.

"First off...it looks like Greene was being blackmailed into watching our operations and feeding information to his employer," started Fletcher. "Most of us knew about his big gambling debts. And he tried to kill you both because you knew a lot more about this whole mess than anyone else."

"About those monsters?" asked Cameron, his voice a hushed whisper. "About the viral outbreak?"

"That's correct," replied the Lieutenant.

"Wait, what employer?" asked Travis, failing to keep his voice hushed. Luckily, no-one in earshot was paying much attention.

"Greene had a cell phone on him with only one number saved in it," replied Fletcher, "and when I dialled that number, I recognised the voice on the other end. It was one of Umbrella's directors, more specifically, one of the members of their Board of Directors- one of the most senior posts in the Corporation."

"Woah, this is one hell of a conspiracy theory," said Cameron quietly.

"The Board are currently in New York holding crisis talks with their CEO, Ozwell Spencer," continued Fletcher. "Myself, alongside our high command, spoke with them not long after this mess had begun. They told us we were to maintain the story about a toxic waste spillage in the city and to await further instructions…which are yet to come from them."

"Well then," added Travis. "This just gets more and more interesting."

"So you think Umbrella caused all this?" asked Cameron.

"Maybe," replied Fletcher, "but nothing is confirmed, as of yet. It's all just conjecture and circumstance." There was a silence for a few moments, before the Lieutenant spoke up again. "I'm sorry gentlemen, but you have to excuse me again. I need to attend to a civilian aircraft entering restricted airspace." And with that, he turned and strode away, disappearing into his command tent to leave the two friends to contemplate what had just been discussed.

"Umbrella causing all this?" mused Travis. "Just doesn't make sense…they're a pharmaceutical company."

"Maybe so, but this virus could've been something they were working on," replied Cameron, using logic. "You know, a deadly virus that's practically unknown in the world, and they're looking to create a vaccine before it becomes too big a threat? And then something went wrong, the virus got loose…"

"Always using logic, eh Cam?" laughed Travis, shaking his head. "Whatever or whoever's responsible for this mess, Dean and Ben are still stuck out there."

"Well then," replied Cameron, looking into the distance, "let's hope those firemen are reliable."

* * *

Somewhere in the sky above Raccoon City, an unmarked UH-60 Blackhawk chopper touched down on the roof of Umbrella Inc's downtown HQ, a massive glass skyscraper which dominated the very centre of the city. Within seconds of the chopper touching down, the side doors banged open and a quartet of soldiers in full black tactical gear and gas masks dismounted, spreading out and setting up a firebase around the landing pad. All four were armed with MP5 submachine-guns, the glowing red lenses on their gas masks giving them a robotic, almost demonic look.

A few seconds later, a towering figure with grey hair and wearing a long blue trench coat stepped out of the chopper, striding straight up towards the elevator access door at the far side of the roof top. A vintage C96 Mauser handgun was held in his right hand, and by the time he had reached the elevator and pushed the call button, the four soldiers followed after him, their velvet-soled boots making barely any sound on the gravel surface.

They were members of the USF, the somewhat secretive and feared special operations unit that featured in Umbrella's paramilitary wing, only deployed on the most dangerous or classified missions. All of them were highly trained and utterly ruthless, not above executing any witnesses complicit to their 'activities'. And right now, this small unit had been deployed to the Raccoon City HQ on a highly important mission.

"Remember, comrades," spoke Sergei Vladimir, turning to face the small team. "Our mission is of the utmost secrecy. If we come across any human survivors…neutralise them." The masked soldiers nodded in unison as they piled into the elevator as the doors opened, and then parted to allow Sergei to enter. The towering Russian smacked the button for the ground floor, and the doors slid shut.

Sergei's goal remained at the forefront of his mind: to recover the U.M.F -013 computer core, which contained all of Umbrella's research data, both past and present. The city was a lost cause, that much was blindingly obvious, but the research data was of paramount importance, and had to be secured at all costs, lest decades of work be lost in the fires ravaging the city. According to intel, the Umbrella HQ building was relatively intact, though it was highly likely that most of the staff left behind had been infected with the T-Virus, and other B.O.W's likely to have been released in the confusion of the outbreak.

Sergei pulled back the bolt on his handgun, as he listened intently to the breathing of the men surrounding him, two of them positioned on either side of the door, their SMG's aimed forward to engage anything standing directly outside the elevator. The Russian was in a state of absolute calm, a state he had mastered during his time as a Soviet Colonel. Those days seemed so long ago now…

The loud 'ping' of the elevator reaching its destination disrupted Sergei's thoughts, and he looked up as the doors opened, revealing a trio of T-Virus hosts on the other side, lurching towards the new arrivals. The USF soldiers opened fire, and within a few heartbeats, the monsters hit the carpeted floor, their brains smashed open by 9mm rounds.

"Let's go, comrades," said Sergei, as he strode out of the elevator, leading the way towards their objective. He had been to the Raccoon HQ on several occasions, so he knew the building like the back of his hand. The elevator wouldn't take them down to the sub-basement where the data banks were kept, so they had to take the stairwell down, located on the far east side of the ground floor, past the entrance hall.

The USF soldiers were a picture of a well drilled and highly-trained military unit, as they advanced in a classic wedge formation; each gun aimed in a different direction, their velvet-soled boots allowing them to move with the utmost silence. Sergei advanced at the head of the wedge, his Mauser held out in front of him, lest any threats were to appear suddenly.

They currently made their way through one of the office wings, a spacious area taken up with countless work cubicles and glass-walled offices for more senior staff. Viral carriers wandered here and there, most of them in the standard white shirt and black tie uniform of Umbrella admin staff, any of which that got too close to the small unit gunned down with the utmost prejudice. Sergei fixed his aim on the head of a middle-aged man with greying hair, and pulled the trigger. The loud retort of his weapon cut through the air like a hot knife through butter, and two thirds of the man's skull erupted like a balloon.

One of the USF troopers stopped suddenly and held his hand up as he detected some motion out of the corner of his eye, through the glass wall of an enclosed office. Motioning for one of his comrades to back him up, he approached the closed door of the offending office unit in a crouched walk, his companion covering him from afar. Once he had taken up position next to the door, he motioned for the other trooper to join up with him, and he advanced in a similar manner, so they were now both arranged outside the door. The first trooper held his gloved fingers up, counting down from three, before the second one wheeled about and booted the door in off of its hinges.

_Crack!_

The door splintered away from them as they both now stood in the doorway, MP5's trained at the crouched figures directly ahead of them. A trio of human survivors sat crouched at the far side of the office, directly next to a huge oak desk: two men and a young woman. One of the men was crouched on his knees, his face frantic as he held his hands up to show that they weren't armed, while the other man held the wailing woman in his arms. They all looked exhausted and haggard.

"Don't shoot!" cried the kneeling man. "We're human-"

The USF troopers opened fire. Within a heartbeat, the three survivors hit the carpeted floor, their bodies torn apart by fully automatic gunfire, their blood splattered against the wall behind where they lay.

"All clear," barked one of the troopers into his ear piece as they both withdrew. Most people would have fiercely condemned what they had just done, but the USF weren't constricted by the Geneva Convention or any other normal law: they were literally a law above themselves, and some squads had massacred dozens of human survivors and burned down entire indigenous villages in order to cover up previous outbreaks, so three dead office drones was hardly something to cry about, as far as they were concerned. The pair rejoined with the others, and they moved on, as though nothing had happened in the first place.

Soon enough they had entered the reception hall, a cavernous, marble-floored room with a ceiling extending far above their heads. Sergei's boots echoed loudly through the room as they advanced quickly, heading towards the east wing and closer to their destination. The massive reinforced glass doors into the building were tightly sealed, and they could see a long line of zombies directly outside, pressing against the glass feebly. Countless more could be seen approaching the doors in the grand stone plaza outside.

Sergei lead the way into another admin office, and then directly towards the stairwell door, before motioning for the USF troopers to enter. One of them moved forward and booted the door open, flicking on the flashlight attachment on his MP5 and nosing it around inside. "Clear!" he barked, and the others filed in after him, Sergei being the last to enter. The inside of the stairwell was fairly dark, but the mounted flashlights on the USF's MP5's lit the way sufficiently enough.

Soon enough, they had entered the sub level, which unlike the offices above, was much more industrial in appearance, the walls and floors made from solid steel, the ceiling made from wire mesh, covering lines of electrical cables as thick as their arms and steel piping. The low hum of ventilation fans could be heard from somewhere nearby and it was somewhat colder down here than above, but the USF troopers had thermal padding within their uniforms, and Sergei was used to cold Russian winters anyhow. Most of the lights were still on, so the troopers killed their weapon-mounted lights.

"This way," Sergei said, turning and leading the way down the passage. They advanced in silence, at a brisk enough pace so they would have time to act if ambushed, but at a fast enough pace so they could complete their goal in good time.

They soon emerged into one of the 'nurseries', a large room with several glass pods hanging on both side walls, each pod wired up to expensive-looking vital monitoring equipment. These rooms were intended to store and maintain the company's more advanced B.O.W's, and right now several of the pods were intact, frog-like Hunter B.O.W's submerged in clear fluid, though a few of them were empty, and others had been smashed open from the inside, fluid dripping down onto the grated flooring.

A familiar shriek was heard, and the USF were on their toes, just as a Hunter, its shining scales covered in fresh blood, dropped down from somewhere above, landing just in front of the doorway ahead of them. It shrieked again, before charging at them, claws beared.

"Hunter! Take it down!" barked one of the troopers, and they all opened up, sending the creature shrieking backwards, its chest ripped apart by fully automatic gunfire. It had barely hit the ground when a second Hunter appeared in the doorway, this one a Hunter Gamma, with a large mouth and webbed hands and feet that were much closer to that of a frog than the other Hunter variations developed by the corporation. The creature opened its mouth wide and let out a croaking call, facing down the humans before it.

Sergei raised his Mauser and fired off three shots, each one of them hitting the Gamma inside its open mouth and punching out through the other side, leaving a ragged bloody hole in the creature's flesh. It hit the floor soon after that, its whole body convulsing, and then lying still as its blood drained out onto the steel flooring. There was another croaking sound, and they looked upwards to see another Gamma loitering in the steel rafters, preparing to drop down on them, but the soldiers were on the button, raising their SMG's and riddling it with bullets, sending its ventilated corpse falling to the floor with a wet smack.

"Move," ordered the Russian, and the small group set off again, pausing briefly to make sure the B.O.W's were fully dead, unloading a couple of solitary rounds into each one's skull. Further on, the came across the corpses of a few scientists, one of them with his guts trailing halfway across the passage and another with his head taken off cleanly, blood drenching his white coat. After another 50 odd yards, they came to a fork in the path, and Sergei lead the way down the left path, following the signs for 'Data Library'.

The rest of their journey was fairly uneventful, and soon enough they reached a massive set of steel doors, locked tight with pistons and other mechanisms. The USF troopers slowly took up defence positions around the doors, as the squad leader looked up in awe.

"So this…" he began to say.

"-is where Umbrella keeps the records of her previous experiments and projects," replied Sergei, walking around towards a small control console at the side of the doors. "Over 30 years of the corporation's secrets…and our mission objective." He then started inputting some codes into the keypad, before turning his head towards the squad leader. "Sergeant, see to your firebase." The sergeant just nodded and moved away to join his troops, as Sergei entered another password into the console.

Umbrella's Data Library was locked with over 10 levels of security protocol, along with thick steel wall linings that were almost impossible to cut or blast through, and also contained digital circuits designed to prevent any computer hacking from the outside. But as Spencer's most trusted enforcer, Sergei had been given the entry passwords for the doors before he had left, and was currently entering them one by one, being rewarded with green lettering reading 'Password Accepted' each time he hit the enter key. Within no time, the final password had been entered, and big letters reading 'Access Granted' flashed across the screen.

"It's done," the Russian said flatly, stepping back as they heard the sound of heavy pistons inside the gates pulling backwards.

The Russian watched silently as the thick bars on the front of the doors started to draw back slowly, dropping into place somewhere within the thick outer frame. Finally, the circular latches in the centre of each door rotated and clicked into place, and then finally there was a low 'thud' as the doors opened a few inches, and then slowly swung open away from them, creaking loudly as they went. After several seconds, the doors were open wide enough for a person to pass through, and Sergei strode on through, closely followed by the USF squad.

Directly inside the Data Library, a trio of zombified technicians in dark blue clothing wandered aimlessly among two lines of supercomputers; tall, monolithic objects, each of which held a ridiculous amount of computer data on Umbrella's countless experiments and projects over the years, along with the more mundane such as their employee records and so forth. As the zombies surged towards them, the USF squad opened fire, cutting the monsters down and sending a few of the supercomputers up in sparks.

The squad moved in, passing the rows of supercomputers and descending down onto the lower level, a wide open area dotted with over a dozen work stations where the Data Library's technical staff worked, checking for any leaks in their security protocols and ensuring no virus activity could be detected. This room was also a lot warmer than the cool steel passages they had advanced through, probably due to the massive amount of computers working 24/7 in here, despite the massive air conditioning fans that hung overhead. But Sergei was only interested in what stood at the very far side of the room.

A tall red cylinder-like object, erected within a thick steel base, stood at the far side of the Data Library, flanked by numerous smaller data bank units and a small power generator. Several black screens were built into the front of the steel base, reeling off a long stream of data, and countless small lights blinked on and off up the sides of the main cylinder shaft. Sergei approached the steel base and put his hand against it, looking up, listening to the loud humming of its considerable internal cooling fan.

"The U.M.F-013," he said quietly. "The data bank containing all of Umbrella's test data for the last 30 years. Isn't it a magnificent sight, comrades?"

"So this is what we've come for?" asked the USF sergeant as his men set up another firebase.

"Indeed," replied Sergei, as he already set about disconnecting the thick, brightly-coloured cables connecting the base to the small power generator, and the small screens and countless blinking lights went dead. Luckily, the data bank would automatically save and withhold all of the data written onto its circuit boards, somewhere in the region of 100,000 gigabytes of data. While the supercomputers held most of the corporation's research data, it was all backed up several times on the U.M.F-013, and as such that data bank was guarded almost as though it were Fort Knox.

Come, help me with the brakes," requested Sergei, as he set about kicking off the small clamps on each pair of wheels set into the data bank's base, for easy transport to other facilities if required. With the USF sergeant aiding Sergei, soon enough the wheels were free to move, and the pair slowly and carefully pulled the U.M.F-013 away from its housing. The towering data bank moved with surprising ease, though they would still need to be careful in transporting it: if it toppled over and smashed, some three decades would have been lost in one fell swoop.

"Now comrades, to take our prize to safety."

* * *

Dean grunted as he worked the master key into the keyhole on the console and twisted it, being rewarded with an audible 'click', and then a few seconds later, and on screen message stating 'Access Granted'.

"Hold on buddy, we're almost there," he said softly as he put the key away, being careful in every action so as not to antagonise Ben's injuries in any way, shape or form.

Ugh," moaned Ben, his eyes half-closed and his feet starting to droop. The trip here, carrying his seriously wounded best friend with him, seemed to have taken Dean forever, making sure to take his time and peering around each corner to check if any fresh zombies or B.O.W's had appeared. Obviously, if he had to stop to put Ben down before fighting back against an enemy, it would likely end with both of them being killed before he could draw his gun.

"Come on, stick with me," urged Dean as the double doors leading to the train station slowly began to swing inwards, exposing a clear path to the station…or so he hoped. The passage on the other side of the doors was fairly plain and featureless, aside from the half dozen naked zombies that lingered here and there. As the doors touched the walls and came to a halt with a loud 'clank', the zombies swerved in Dean and Ben's direction, and then started to stagger towards them, arms outstretched.

"Perfect," muttered Dean, before he carefully reached down for his Beretta and drew it from its holster. He then moved forward a little, making sure that Ben wasn't catching on anything, and waited until the first zombie drew a bit closer. The monster's face, with its nose and its left cheek missing, made him feel slightly, but he maintained his composure as he aimed with one hand.

BANG!

The zombie crumpled over like wet paper, a perfect shot to his forehead. Dean waited patiently as the other zombies drew closer before opening fire, so as to not risk missing any of them. Within a minute, all six zombies lay dead on the ground, in widening pools of fetid blood and brain matter. He sighed out in relief before holstering his weapon.

"Come on Ben, stay with me," he whispered as he began to move towards the door at the far end of the passage, stepping carefully around the dead zombies and breathing through his mouth to avoid inhaling the disgusting stench of their rotted frames. Instead he just focused on that door at the end of the passage, which seemed to be miles away, considering the pace they were currently travelling at. His hearing faded out so all he could hear was his own thundering heartbeat, the blaring sirens from overhead, and Ben's moans of pain as he slipped in and out of consciousness.

There was no danger of the Tyrant coming after them now it was lying flat out on its back in the facility's entrance hall, but considering Ben's state, he still couldn't afford to take his time. All throughout their lives, Ben had been the impulsive one who always did things without thinking, and Dean had been there to drag him out of trouble. What came to mind immediately was the night immediately after their graduation from University, where they had been in a downtown bar in Richmond, minding their own business, before Ben suddenly said he wanted to try and talk up some woman at the end of the bar, which he did successfully, for the most part.

Unfortunately though, her boyfriend happened to be a six foot something biker with biceps the size of Kansas, and Dean had tried to step in to stop Ben getting his face smashed in, but ended up being dragged into a bar brawl against three of the biker's friends, which ended with Dean smashing a beer bottle over the biker's head and nearly giving him a concussion. And as such, both men spent the night in the local jail. Good thing the cops took pity on them, otherwise they may have come off a lot worse.

"Typical Ben," he smiled to himself, as he came within six feet of the door now, and the plain steel structure slid upwards into the ceiling, allowing him to step through into the train station. He paused for a minute or two, glancing around at the room he was now stood in.

The train station was fairly uniform in appearance, being comprised of a rough concrete square, just over 50 square feet in size, with a quartet of large stone pillars dotted around the area, just out of the room's corners. Several steel storage boxes, similar to the ones that had been scattered throughout the facility's entrance hall, were piled against the side walls and pillars, alongside some wooden crates and red oil drums. At the far side of the room was the train itself, a huge, box-shaped, industrial-looking monster, painted in faded orange and yellow stripes. Behind the main engine car were two separate carriages, extending back into the buffers set against the far wall, while the front of the engine car was just a few scant feet away from a darkened tunnel entrance

It looked as though it hadn't been used in years, but he had nothing else to go on right now. He looked around a little and saw the door on the side of the engine car was wide open.

"Thank God," he whispered, heading towards the door, as the automated door behind him slid shut. Within several seconds they had crossed the threshold into the engine car, which featured steel grated flooring, a small set of steps to his left which lead up to the door leading into the control room itself, and to his right was a closed door, leading towards the next carriage, he reckoned. And directly in front of him was a bed, laid out on steel arms extending out from the wall, a white pillow already laid out.

He moved towards the bed and carefully lowered Ben onto it, making sure that he didn't rush the actions. He first laid down his friend's shoulders and head region, and then carefully lifted his legs up onto the bed, making sure that he wasn't lying at an awkward or uncomfortable angle.

"Dean…what's going on?" he asked, his voice just above a whisper.

"Don't worry man, we're almost home free," replied Dean, crouching over his friend. "Just take it easy, OK? Stay with me."

He didn't wait to hear a reply as he stood and retrieved a red and white painted medical box hanging on the wall, before throwing it open and digging out some bandages, carefully wrapping them around Ben's ribs, being careful not to wrap them too tightly so as not to strain his friend's injuries any further. After a couple more minutes, he had finished his wrapping, and he retrieved another fresh can of first-aid spray from the box, spraying around half of the contents on Ben's torso, always quickly glancing up to check his friend's expression as he worked, to see if he was in any pain or not. Luckily, he wasn't, and Dean set the can down again.

"I'll be right back buddy, just need to start this tin can up," he said, before ascending the smalls set of steps into the train's driver compartment. The huge window before him peered out into darkness of the blackest oblivion, while the front panel was covered in numerous levers, switches, buttons, and lights that were currently off. And so now he had to worry about what controls to press, and he knew exactly nothing about train operation.

"Come on intuition, don't fail me now," he whispered, noting the small keyhole in the bottom of the panel. Having a thought, he retrieved the master key from his pocket and inserted it into the keyhole, twisting it with ease, but the key instantly returned to the neutral position rather than locking in place.

"What the?" he asked, before turning the key in the place again, but still to no avail. So he resorted to hitting a few of the switches instead, but still nothing happened. He groaned in annoyance, and then noted the clear black screen on the right side of the panel, currently bare.

_Is the power not on or something?_

He realised that upon entering the train that there were no lights or anything else on, even though the doors still worked. He glanced up and to his right, and saw the thick bundle of power cables that extended from the far corner of the control panel, up and around, disappearing through a hole in the top corner of the ceiling. Curiously, he stuck his head back into the passenger section of the engine car, and he could see the same length of cable extending across the top part of the ceiling and disappearing into the next carriage.

He stepped down from the control room and slowly approached the entrance to the second carriage, casting a quick glance down at Ben who stirred lightly, but it wasn't from pleasant sleeping. He was clearly still in a lot of pain. He'd have to get them on the move as soon as possible.

The door slid open with ease, and Dean passed through the next carriage, which was bare of any unique characteristics at all: just plain steel walls and floor, so he guessed this train was originally used as a transport train for large cargo, as well as for people. He wondered if they used this train to transport in some of the larger cargos and materials for constructing the facility in the first place. He continued to follow the overhanging cables right into the back carriage, which was half-filled with boxes of supplies and various construction materials, including steel poles, bags of cement and so forth.

The cables finally terminated where they fed into the side of a large box set onto the wall to his left, the front glass cover left wide open. Inside, he could see a pair of large two-pronged plugs, one with red casing and another with blue casing, hanging freely from their sockets. Dean could see the thick later of dust on the casing, where someone had recently tampered with the power supply.

_But who?_

He couldn't let himself dwell too much on that fact, as Ben was still dying slowly back in the engine carriage. Quickly, he reconnected the plugs, and once both of them were in place, a series of small green lights illuminated along the side of the power box, and he could hear a low humming noise from somewhere nearby, indicating that the power had been restored. He sighed in relief, before he hurried back towards the engine carriage

He had barely entered the carriage when he passed by a small glass box which was mounted on the steel wall to his right. As he moved by, he felt some unsettleing presence prick the hairs on the back of his neck, and he paused in place. And then he looked into the glass immediatly afterwards, and saw some faint movement in the faint reflection.

His eyes went wide and he dove off to the side, just as the pronged teeth of a steel crowbar came down, smashing the glass into countless tiny shards that rained down across his back.

Grunting, Dean turned and grabbed the medical box he had just used, before swinging it around with both hands. There was a hollow sound as the box struck the attacker's face, and then a yelp of pain as he saw a human body go flying backwards against the wall, blood spraying from his busted nose. The crowbar went flying in the other direction, and Dean took the oppourtunity to drop the medical kit to the floor, scooping up the crowbar instead and walking up to the intruder, pulling them up by the front of their shirt and tossing them out onto the platform. The pathetic figure yelped as they hit the floor.

Raising the crowbar in his hands, Dean paused as soon as he saw the bleeding man's face.

"You!"

"You'll never leave this place alive," growled Malcolm Donovan, blood streaming out of his busted nose. "Even if you managed to best the Tyrant, then I won't allow it! You won't get away with humiliating me, with everything you've done!"

"Humiliating?" asked Dean as he looked down on the pathetic figure of the facility supervisor. "You can manage that yourself," he retorted, tossing the crowbar away across the platform. "You had a responsibility to protect the people employed under you, and yet you signed them to their deaths!"

"Maybe so," smiled Donovan wickedly, "but your friend won't last much longer either." The insane supervisor looked up past Dean, at Ben laid out on the bed inside the engine carriage, clinging to life despite suffering some pretty serious injuries. Dean looked back himself, falling silent as the man's words sank in.

"How long do you think you can keep him alive?" taunted Donovan, forcing himself up into a seated position, glaring straight into Dean's eyes. "Even if you get outside of the city, that train's destination is still several miles from civilization. Do you really think you can keep him alive for that long? By yourself?"

Dean continued to stare down, into Donovan's disturbing beige eyes. He could see the signs of a man who had lost it big time, but he also saw some grain of logic, still embedded into the man's psyche. Part of him had doubted that train would take them straight to a town with a hospital nearby, but they had nothing else to go on currently- Racoon was somewhat isolated from other cities in the county, after all. And with a broken rib or two, Ben's time was rapidly running out.

"I hope this shows you something, Dean," the supervisor added, moving up onto his knees. His use of Dean's name made the R.P.D officer's spine shiver. "Shows you how fragile the human body is, when compared to our magnificent creations!"

That statement was the last straw for Dean, whose eyes burned with anger, and then he swung his fist down, smacking Donovan in the left cheek and knocking him backwards.

"No!" he snapped, as Donovan cowered on the concrete floor. "I _will _save him, no matter what it takes! And don't you dare compare him to one of your test tube-born freaks!"

"Humans are evolutionary failures!" yelled Donovan back defiantly, dragging himself away on his arms. "It's what I've realised during my time with Umbrella! You're so willing to commit yourself to your own fragile flesh and bones?"

"Rather a failure than a monster," retorted Dean firmly. "Maybe you should stay here a while, get to know your 'creations' a little better."

"You would abandon me?" wailed Donovan. "And what would that make you, Dean? A hero? Or a cold-blooded murderer? I see how killing all those zombies and B.O.W's has stained your morals!" Before Dean could come back with a suitable retort, they were both interrupted in the most spectacular manner.

CRASH!

The automated door leading into the station exploded inwards, flying across the room and sliding to a stop just a few feet away from the train. Dean flinched in surprise at the sudden noise and moved backwards and reached for his shotgun, so he was closer to the train, while Donovan only turned in the direction of the disturbance, as a large shadow appeared through the cloud of dust thrown up. Dean felt his heart drop as the dust cleared.

"Oh no…" he said, shaking his head.

"Ah…maybe now you'll see what magnificence is!" laughed Donovan as he rose to his feet.

The Tyrant stood tall in the ruined doorway, the frame bent inwards from where it had smashed the door straight out of its housing. The brute's green coat was badly tattered and frayed, and also burnt to a deep black in several points, from its previous encounter with Ben and Dean. It stood glowering at Dean, its eyes burning like miniature suns. Seeing as it seemed content to just stand there, Dean slowly reached for his shotgun and aimed it at the bald giant, even as Donovan started to back away towards it.

"You see now?" taunted Donovan loudly, arms held out on either side of him. "You see just what we have accomplished, Dean? Even you, with your human tenacity and sheer will, can't hope to best our magnificence Tyrants!" Dean looked over at the insane supervisor and then back at the Tyrant, tempted to agree.

_This freak was bad enough with two of us fighting him. How the hell will I manage by myself?_

"So," added Donovan with a smirk, "I suppose this is goodbye. I do hate to say my farewells-"

He was cut off suddenly when the Tyrant's arm shot out, clamping down around Donovan's head like a heavy duty vice. The supervisor yelped in terror and pain as the towering monster effortlessly lifted him off the ground, his legs flailing madly, his hands clamped onto the monster's thick wrist to try and prise himself free.

"What are you doing?" he screamed, frantically, as the Tyrant squeezed Donovan's head like it were squeezing juice from a lemon. "I am not your enemy! He is!" the supervisor screamed again, as Dean just stood by, watching the scene unfold.

Donovan's struggles became less energetic as the Tyrant increased its pressure, and the supervisor's arms fell from above his head, hanging at his sides limply, his protests becoming mere whimpers of pain as Dean could hear the creaking of the supervisor's skull beginning to buckle under the intense pressure.

"No…premature…" muttered Donovan. Just before the end came, he had a few scant moments to ponder why exactly the Tyrant's directive to ignore Umbrella personnel had been disregarded so blatantly. Perhaps it wasn't as easy to control their B.O.W's as he had first thought…

With one final squeeze, there was a sickening crack of bone as Donovan's skull finally caved in, blood and liquefied brain matter bursting from his mouth, nose and ears, his body falling limp like a rag doll. The Tyrant remained as stony-faced as ever, even with fresh blood splattered onto the front of its coat.

And with that, the once-distinguished Donovan family had been wiped from Umbrella's history.

"Shit!" cried Dean as he witnessed Donovan's sickening death. The bastard may have been totally insane and tried to have killed them both on more than one occasion, but still no-one deserved to die like that.

The Tyrant grunted lightly as it tossed Donovan's body aside like the rag doll, the limp body crashing against the far wall and slumping to the floor, blood leaking freely from the man's crushed head. It then turned towards Dean, regarding the survivor with an intense stare. It didn't move, just continued to stand in place staring him out. Dean stood his ground, waiting for the creature to make the first move, but it seemed unwilling to do so.

"What's the matter?" asked Dean confidently. "Afraid I'm going to put you on your back again?" The Tyrant still didn't react, but Dean didn't dare move, lest the creature was just waiting for its opponent to make the first move before attacking.

Then the creature did something unexpected: it took one step forward, then clamped onto the lapels of its tattered coat with its massive fists, before wrenching them away from its body, tearing the green fabric free from its body.

_What the-? _

The Tyrant tossed the tattered cloth aside, and now he could see the rest of its body for the first time: pale grey skin much like its head, criss-crossed in place with numerous surgical scars, some of them stapled shut crudely. He could also see some recent burns and several bullet wounds, presumably from the last encounter with the towering B.O.W. Otherwise it was fairly muscular, reminding him of a champion body builder, though lacking any form of genetalia. The only sort of clothing it wore now were its gloves, its boots, and a few strips of green clothing hanging at its ankles and wrists.

_What the hell are you doing…?_

Suddenly, the Tyrant let out a low grunt and fell forwards, collapsing onto its hands and knees, as Dean could see its skin bubbling. Several seconds later, the Tyrant groaned loudly, and then there was a loud 'pop' of bone and blood spurted from the creature's upper left arm. Dean backed away, eyes wide in surprise.

_Is he…?_

The Tyrant groaned again as its body seemed to increase in mass suddenly, its arms and legs swelling to nearly double their size, becoming lined with massive slabs of thick muscle. And then the muscle began to develop across its broad chest, blood bursting from its skin as the mutations tore apart its flesh, its gloves and boots being ripped apart as the giant's bulk increased rapidly. Soon enough it was ever taller than before, standing well over 10 feet tall. Dean backed away even further, shaking his head.

_Oh no…_

The Tyrant punched its left hand into the ground, smashing the concrete, before several bony spikes erupted through its fist. The monster looked curiously at the occurrence, before punching its fist down again, its fingers fusing together so the limb was more like a spiked bone club than a true hand. The creature then threw its head back and screamed, a thundering battle cry that threatened to rend the flesh from his bones.

_No…not now!_

The flesh on its right hand continued to bubble and seeth, and then razor-sharp claws erupted from its fingertips, each one nearly two foot long and capable to tearing a human being in half with ease. The Tyrant looked down at its new weapons, and screamed again, in a lower tone this time, before there was a final tearing of flesh, and something small and grey suddenly protruded through the left side of the monster's muscular chest, where its heart was located. Maybe it was its heart, for all he knew.

And then all was silent, save for Dean's panicked breathing, as the Tyrant remained in a crouched position, letting the last of its blood drip onto the concrete, a large pool some 15 feet wide all around it. Then the monster slowly rose to its feet, drawing up to its full size, standing at least 12 feet tall now, at least two and a half times taller than Dean, and nearly twice its bulk in sheer muscle. Its huge fists, once deadly weapons initially, were now even more dangerous in their own right now: its left fist a spiked, bony club, and its right hand now sporting fatally-sharp claws that he wouldn't want to get too close to.

And even the Tyrant's visage had changed: its once statuesque face had now changed finally, its mouth having widened and now filled with rows of needle-like teeth, giving it a demonic grin. And even its remaining eye had changed from a plain white colouration to almost pure blood red, burning furiously. Frankly, the creature now looked like some monstrous demon that had been sent forth from the underworld by Lucifer himself, intended to be the final obstacle in his path towards freedom.

The Tyrant threw its arms back, and screamed again, the horrific sound filling the entire room, and shaking Dean's bones to the core. He backed away from the monster, leaning heavily up against the train, staring up at the monstrosity before him, his heart beat racing furiously.

_Oh God, please God, no…_

**A/N: And so Dean's final battle before he can escape the Necropolis looms. Will he best the T-103 V 2.0 R (wow, that's a mouthful), or will he become the monster's next victim?**

**On a side note, this Tyrant's design is based somewhat on many different Tyrants, including its spiked club fist (taken from the T-078 in Code Veronica) and its evil grin, based on the final form of the Hpynos Tyrant in Survivor (I swear, that damned face gave me nightmares for weeks). Also, its actions in its initial form is based on the revamped 103 seen in The Darkside Chronicles: now this guy's so merciless he casually beats down any zombies that get in his way, and has no qualms about kicking steel gates off their hinges at full force.**

**Also, regarding the part where Sergei and the USF deploy into the Raccoon HQ to recover the U.M.F data bank, apparently it's actually classified as the '-013', whereas in an earlier chapter I mistakenly put it down as the '-103', so apologies for the mistake.  
**

**In other news, I should also be updating the next chapter for my 'Tales from the Necropolis' very shortly, so keep your eyes peeled for that. I have also played through another awesome game, Final Fantasy XIII. Looks amazing and it plays amazing too, even if it is somewhat more linear than previous games in the series. But it is somewhat more forgiving too, so if you like that kind of game, then check it out. **

**Either way, this story is rapidly reaching its conclusion, so don't miss anything! R + R as usual, please, and thanks for reading.  
**


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27: The End of the Line**

**September 29****th**** 1131 hours**

_Oh Jesus Christ…what the hell am I supposed to do now?_

The newly-mutated Tyrant screamed once again, the high-pitched sound threatening to rupture Dean's eardrums and knock him from his feet. The R.P.D officer stood his ground though, shotgun armed, raising his arms to block the sonic assault.

Fighting the monster had been almost impossible before, as it easily scattered steel storage boxes in its path and smashed through solid steel walls during its battle with the two of them, even managing to succeed in seriously wounding Ben, breaking at least one of his ribs and causing unknown amounts of internal damage. Ben was currently laid out on that steel cot in the engine car just behind Dean, swimming in and out of consciousness, likely not knowing what was going on right now.

And now the monster had mutated into a terrifying new form, complete with one clawed arm and one club-like fist, at least twice its size and bulk now, its once granite-like features sporting a demonic grin, complete with a glowing blood-red eye, making it more akin to a hellish demon than some man-made biological weapon. At the far right side of the station platform lay the body of facility supervisor Malcolm Donovan, his head squeezed and popped like a ripe grape, a pool of blood and chunks of brain matter pooling around his buckled skull, acting as a gruesome reminder of what fate could befall Dean if he failed. And he had no intention of failing now.

Dean glanced back momentarily, then shot his hand out and punched the door control for the engine car entrance, the automated steel door sliding shut and taking Ben out of direct view of the Tyrant. Even though he was by himself, Dean knew fine well that he would have to pull out all of the stops against this freak if they were to escape this hell hole finally: they had both come too far to just give up now.

"OK then," he whispered to himself as he pumped the shotgun, racking a shell up into the firing breech and aiming down the sights at its broad torso. "You want more, you damned freak? Then come and get it!"

In response, the Tyrant planted one foot forward, lowered its right arm, and then charged straight at Dean, moving so fast that it seemed to glide across the floor, its dragging claw gouging into the concrete. Within barely a second it was right up in Dean's face, ready to take his head off with a single, well-aimed swipe. "Holy shit!" he cried out, ducking down and rolling forward, as the claws passed just above his head, slicing deep into the side of the train carriage and leaving a series of deep groves, some of them deep enough to actually penetrate straight through the thick wall of the carriage.

_That was way too close for comfort!_

Dean kipped back to his feet and circled around the Tyrant as it recovered from the charge attack and began to turn to face him once more. Dean took the opening to open fire, and he aimed at the monster's broad back before pulling the trigger.

BOOM!

The buckshot ripped a rapped hole the size of a car tyre in the back of the Tyrant's shoulder, but the monster only flinched a little from the impact as its blood was spilt, and it turned to face him slowly, issuing a low growl.

"Aw shit!" he said, firing again, ripping another hole into the Tyrant's muscular stomach, but doing little to slow it down again. "Really could do with a grenade launcher right now!" he then yelled, as he poured three more shells into the Tyrant's body, each load of buckshot sinking into the Tyrant almost as though he were pelting a brick wall with balls of soft clay.

_But through enough clay at a wall, and you'll find a chink eventually…_

The Tyrant suddenly took a big step forwards and swung its clubbed fist towards Dean, who hopped backwards to avoid the deadly blow, though he still felt the breeze from the attack push into his stomach, and in his desperation to avoid the attack his feet tripped over something behind him and he landed harshly on his rear, the Tyrant towering over him, bringing its left fist back and then raising it high, ready to bring down in a crushing attack that would kill him instantly.

"Oh fuck!" screamed Dean as he rolled himself to the side, ignoring the lingering aches and pains from his first battle with the Tyrant, as his opponent's fist slammed down on where he had been lying just previously, smashing a crater nearly two feet deep and throwing up a cloud of dust and concrete shards that showered his body.

_Damn, that could have been my head!_

He scrambled backwards, ramming up against one of the thick support pillars that held up the roof, the Tyrant closing in on him, reaching down with its clawed hand, its grin seeming to twist up into a celebratory smile, but Dean wasn't going to let this freak take him that easily, and he drew his Beretta, aiming one-handed towards its face as it closed in on him.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

He landed five shots into its ugly face at near point-blank range, forcing the monster to stagger back a short distance, howling in pain and anger as it did so, giving him ample time to get to his feet and fall back to a safe enough distance. The Tyrant continued to howl as it shook its head, spraying blood onto the ground as its facial wounds closed up with a crunching of bone and twisting of sinews.

"Nice try, but you'll have to work harder for your kill!" he yelled, as he carefully loaded fresh shells into his shotgun so it was fully reloaded for their next clash. "I've come too damned far to just lay down and die now!"

Seeming to accept the shout as some sort of challenge, the Tyrant bought its arms back and howled again, and then charged straight at Dean, this time in a more lumbering fashion, each of its heavy footsteps shaking the floor as it bared down at its human opponent, swinging its claws towards him in a one-two combo attack, both swipes barely missing him as he ducked back and away, circling around the support pillar and firing off a few more shells, each one spraying a fair amount of blood across the ground, but the wounds were closing up way too quickly to show any lasting damage on the monster.

The Tyrant grunted as it swung its club fist, smashing straight through the middle of the pillar and spraying Dean one more with a cloud of coarse dust. He cried out and lifted his arms up to stop getting any in his eyes, coughing as he felt it prickling at his throat, but the Tyrant paid him no leeway and stepped forward, swinging its huge fist around again. Ignoring the aching sensation in his body, Dean threw himself out of the way as the Tyrant's massive fist caught a wooden storage crate and reduced it to tiny splinters in an instant, and also catching an empty oil drum and crumpling its upper end, throwing it aside with ease.

"Jesus, this guy's not messing around," gasped Dean, forcing himself to stand, using his shotgun as a crutch, the Tyrant howling at him once again. "Maybe I need to find an upgrade," he then added, looking over at the various steel storage boxes in the area, remembering how the ones in the main lobby were stockpiled with weapons…and hopefully these were too.

"Come on, you big ugly bitch!" he yelled as he moved around to stand near a close stack of steel crates, prompting the monster to attack him. He unloaded a couple of more rounds of buckshot into the Tyrant's pale flesh, and the creature screamed once again before it come lumbering after him, swinging its clawed arm in a frantic manner. Dean had to back away as far as he could manage to to avoid the razor-sharp digits as they scattered the boxes like dominos, sending one skidding towards him across the concrete floor.

"Shit!" he cried, diving to get out of the way of the object as it flew past him and crashed against the far wall, splitting open like a tin can and scattering its contents across the ground. He twisted around to sit up, looking around at the destroyed crate and its revealed contents. Several weapons littered the station floor, mainly assault rifles and shotguns (semi-automatic Protectra Strikers mainly, a major upgrade from his current S.P.A.S 12), though he saw one other weapon that looked more like an industrial-sized cattle prod, its twin front-mounted prongs painted in orange and yellow stripes.

"Right now, I'll take anything," he muttered reaching out and grabbing for a Striker shotgun, pumping the grip to make sure that its drum magazine, which held 12 rounds, was fully loaded. Thankfully, it was, and just at the right time, as the Tyrant lumbered after him once more. He swung the shotgun around, and started to fire, pausing briefly after each shot was unleashed to keep a steady rate of fire up.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The Tyrant shuddered and flinched as the buckshot ripped into its broad torso, forcing it to stagger backwards a few steps, finally caught on the back foot for the first time, its massive arms flailing as it screamed in agony. It stumbled back into the shattered pillar it had smashed a short while before, and the support beam crumbled away completely, a few tons of solid cement and other masonry falling from the ceiling and crashing down on the giant, which raised its arms in a pathetic attempt to save itself, and Dean raised his arm to ward off the huge dust cloud thrown up as a result.

Once the sounds of crumbling concrete faded away, he lowered his arm to see a large pile of rubble just in front of him, where the ceiling's support pillar used to be, and the thick cloud of concrete dust that now wafted through the air, severed cables and pipes hanging from the gaping hole in the ceiling. The Tyrant was nowhere to be seen.

"Oh, damn it," sighed Dean, lowering his arms and laughing in blessed relief. "Maybe now you'll stay down with half the ceiling on your head!" he half-yelled, falling backwards into the nearby wall, allowing himself to slide down into a seated position, relief flowing through his body like a soothing current.

But the sound of moving rubble broke him free from his brief moment of bliss, and he slowly forced his neck to crane upwards, in time to see the pile of rubble starting to shift, dust and small pieces of concrete tumbling onto the ground, a deep, guttural growl filtering into his ears.

_You have to be kidding me! That thing was buried under half the ceiling!_

The rubble began to shift even more, and then the muscular outline of the Tyrant's torso came into view, pushing aside the concrete slabs nearly as big as Dean himself, dust cascading off of its pale flesh as it pulled itself up to its full height, a multitude of grazes and cuts on its body closing up, the blood trickling free from the wounds before they stitched up entirely.

The Tyrant eventually raised its head to look at Dean, its shark-like grin seeming to mock him at his futile efforts to try and kill it.

"Goddamn it!" cursed Dean as he started to force himself to stand, ignoring the constant aches that coursed through his body now. He was barely on his feet when the creature screamed again, shaking the very walls around them, and he tensed up as the sonic assault faded away, and then prepared to fire his Striker once again.

He unloaded three shells into the Tyrant's torso as it closed in on him, before bringing its club fist backwards and swinging down towards its intended target. Dean barely had time to dive out of the way as the bony fist smashed another crater into the ground, and Dean landed flat on his face, getting a face full of concrete dust as he did. He had barely lifted his face up when the Tyrant suddenly shot its other hand out and clamped down around Dean's left leg.

He almost immediately felt himself wrenched into the air, his entire world turned upside down before the Tyrant whipped him around violently like a rag doll, slamming him spine-first into a power box on the nearby wall, which erupted into sparks, burning his eyeballs with a bright flare of light. He cried out in pain as he felt himself slammed against the concrete hard, knocking the air from his lungs and cracking a few of his bones but not breaking them, before he was wrenched back up, dangled upside down like a worm on a fishing hook, about to be devoured by a huge fish, though the cunning smirk of the Tyrant was much worse than some fish with a massive appetite.

The monster bought its club fist back and then swung it around at his head, almost as though it were trying to batter open a piñata. He quickly tucked his body up, pulling his head and upper torso out of range of its intended killing blow, though he still felt the wind rustle his hair as he performed the dodging manoeuvre. The giant grunted in annoyance as it pulled its arm back for another blow, and Dean was sure he didn't have enough energy to pull himself out of the way of follow up attack.

Realising that he was still clutching the Striker shotgun even after being tossed about like a rag doll just previously. Summoning up all the concentration that he could muster, he held onto the weapon with both hands and aimed it towards the Tyrant's broad torso, intending to hit whatever exposed region that he could. He Breathed in before pulling the trigger, the weapon screaming in his hands as his whole body jolted from the recoil, and the buckshot ripped into the Tyrant's flesh at near point-blank range.

He must have hit something vitally sensitive as the monster shrieked in agony and its arms flailed, Dean finding himself wrenched to the side before he felt the vice-like grip on his ankle release, and he was flying through the air, his world spinning freely, before he crashed onto the concrete and slid along several yards, the now-empty Striker clattering away from his grasp and his S.P.A.S 12, initially slung over his shoulder, slid off and spun away to a different corner of the station.

"Shit," he groaned as he rolled over onto his back, and then forced himself into a seated up position, watching as the Tyrant across from him shrieked and staggered about randomly, grabbing at the left side of its torso where he had blasted it in an effort to free himself from the creature's grip. It seemed to be trying to cover the grey protrusion with its massive hands, what he guessed was its heart.

_Looks like someone's got a serious case of heartburn…_

He eased himself into a standing posture as the Tyrant's thrashing motions halted and it turned towards him once more, its lone eye burning with unquenchable fury. It reared its head back and screamed once again, this time much more forcefully than before, before it made another charge towards him, claws lowered, scraping into the concrete flooring.

Dean looked back and forth frantically, looking for something, anything he could use against his opponent as it already closed half the distance with ease. His foot clinked against something and he glanced down to see that it was the cattle prod like weapon that had spilled out from that weapon storage crate shortly beforehand. Knowing that there was nothing else in range he could effectively use, he reached down and grabbed for it, swinging it around to bear just as the Tyrant towered over him, readying to swing its razor sharp claws through his soft torso. He pulled down the trigger yoke on the weapon.

_Bzztt!_

There was a flash of blue light as the weapon fired a bolt of electricity from the weapon's twin prongs, striking the Tyrant squarely in the chest and soon blue waves of electricity were coursing through its body. It shrieked in pain and stepped back, its attack abandoned, and as the electricity faded away the odd wisp of black smoke could be seen emanating from the monster's broad shoulders.

Dean looked down at the weapon in his hands and smiled a little. He guessed that it was likely designed to keep unruly B.O.W's under control, or at least as under control as one could get. He quickly raised it to eye level and fired another bolt into the monster, causing it to stagger back once again, giving him a little more space to work with. The ugly burn marks that formed across the Tyrant's pale skin were quickly fading away, though he gathered the screams of pain were real enough.

After a third shock, he quickly ducked underneath the monster's flailing arms, running for his S.P.A.S 12 at the opposite side of the room. Within a few seconds he was within reach, and he scooped it up, making sure that the shoulder strap was on tightly enough so that it wouldn't be lost anytime soon. He then turned back towards the Tyrant again, to see the brute hunker down and roar at him again, preparing itself for yet another charge.

"Bring it!" yelled Dean, standing his ground.

The Tyrant charged.

* * *

The outside loading depot of Raccoon City's Umbrella HQ, half-obscured by the towering skyscraper's shadow, was a place normally buzzing with activity as dozens of delivery trucks came to and fro, and the two marked helipads were normally occupied by the massive transport choppers frequently used by the Corporation. At the far side of the depot was a great concrete road ramp that led up onto the main city road just parallel to the HQ building itself.

Except now the loading depot was empty of anything vaguely resembling normal life, as the zombified remnants of the security force, and their canine charges, wandered the concrete instead, some of them gathering around fallen corpses and gorging themselves until they were full, whereas countless more infected civilians had found a way down into the depot, in their eternal search for fresh meat to feast upon. A few B.O.W transport trucks, identifiable by the large bright yellow tanks on their transport beds, remained parked up, their rear doors left wide open.

There was a sudden rattling sound as one of the massive corrugated shutters on the side of the building's base started to rise up with a fair amount of noise, and immediately a number of zombies within the vicinity began to approach, moaning in unison and reaching their arms out. But within seconds, several of those zombies collapsed to the ground, their heads smashed open like rotten fruit, as a pair of USF troopers emerged into the daylight, MP5's raised.

"Go!" barked the squad leader as he opened fire on another pair of zombies several yards away.

As the shutter finally ended its ascent, the remaining pair of USF troopers appeared, carefully wheeling out the gigantic UMF-013 data bank they had been dispatched to collect from the HQ, as it contained all of Umbrella's research data from the last three decades. As such, it couldn't be allowed to be lost in the fires consuming Raccoon City at the moment. As they carefully guided the computer core towards the nearest helipad, their companions worked to maintain a perimeter, gunning down anything that came too close.

A zombified Doberman slowly pawed towards one of the unsuspecting troopers, growling in a sinister manner, before it raced forward and jumped, teeth-first towards the man, growling rabidly. The man turned too late to face the threat as it was barely two feet away from his face.

BANG!

A loud gunshot rang out and the dog was punched out of mid air with a pained yelp, blood gushing from its ruptured side, blood splashing across the trooper's gas mask. He stared down in silent shock at the fallen canine, just as a large figure strode past and aimed a Mauser pistol down at the animal, finishing it off with a second shot to the head.

"Stay alert, comrade," said Sergei Vladimir blankly before turning towards the remaining zombies in the depot and raising his pistol once more. "Now get that data bank ready to transport!"

The troopers didn't need to be told twice, and they immediately went back to wheeling the core onto the nearest helipad, and then extending the steel frames on both sides of the core's base, designed to hook onto a harness for easy transport by helicopter. Sergei and the other two troopers spread out in a semi-circular pattern, gunning down anything that came too close to their precious cargo. Soon enough a carpet of bodies lay across the depot ground, blood forming large pools as even more zombies began to approach in the background, drawn in by the sound of gunfire.

Once Sergei saw the USF had fully assembled the transport frame, he tapped at his ear piece twice, opening the channel to the support chopper stationed a few blocks away. "This is Silver Wolf, the package is secure. You are free to approach."

"Roger that Silver Wolf," came back a southern-accented voice. "Behemoth is incoming."

Sergei ended the transmission and turned his attention back towards the approaching zombies. He raised his Mauser to fire, just as he heard the dull thud of something metallic from the back of one of the nearby transport trucks, and turned his head towards the source just as something emerged into the light.

Another Hunter B.O.W, its glittering scaly skin riddled with a few bullet wounds, landed gracefully on the concrete its clawed arms soaked in blood. It fixed the Russian with its golden eyes and let out a piercing shriek, before it charged, two more of its ilk emerging suddenly from the same truck, landing expertly on the concrete before charging alongside their cohort.

"Hunters! Take them out!" bellowed Sergei as he started to open fire, dropping the first charging B.O.W with three bloody craters blasted through the centre of its torso. At that moment his weapon clicked on empty and the Russian cursed as he ejected the empty bullet track and raced to load a fresh one into the weapon.

The USF agents directed their gunfire against the remaining Hunters, even as he frog-like monsters darted side to side to try and avoid the gunfire that pinged off of the ground. One of the creatures was riddled with 9mm ammo and collapsed onto its face, shrieking madly as it hit the ground, but the final one performed a quick sideways motion and launched itself into the air towards one of the troopers, its left arm raised back to strike. The man raised his MP5 and unloaded the remainder of the weapon's magazine, the sights tracing the Hunter's path through the air, most of the rounds missing, until it was about to land, and the final few bullets ripped through its heart, even as its arm still swung around, slicing clean through the man's body armour and through his stomach.

The trooper fell to the ground, his MP5 clattering away as he grabbed at his bleeding stomach, his screams muffled by his gas mask. The Hunter flopped to the ground shortly afterwards.

"Man down!" barked the sergeant as he dropped to one knee to examine his comrade's wound, his guts practically falling out of the massive rent in his stomach. The man continued to scream, in a muffled manner, as Sergei paced over to look down at the scene with an unflinching face.

"A mortal wound, comrade," he spoke, raising his Mauser handgun. "He is beyond aid."

BANG!

That single gunshot seemed to overwhelm every other sound in the loading depot, and the USF sergeant leapt back as his comrade's body flopped to the ground, his gas mask shattered apart from Sergei's gunshot. The other troopers looked at their leader fearfully, totally taken aback by what had just happened. The huge Russian just stared at them in an unforgiving manner.

"He would have been a liability, comrades," he explained flatly. "Now get that core into position…now!" The others immediately complied, moving around to wheel the massive data core into the middle of the helipad, as Sergei sighted a few more zombies and gunned them down, skulls exploding like rotten tomatoes.

Almost as soon as the core was in the centre of the helipad, they heard the distant sound of rotor blades, and Sergei saw a massive Chinook transport chopper, callsign 'Behemoth', crest over the top of a nearby office block, and a voice crackled into his ear piece.

"This is Behemoth, coming in to collect. Do you read, Silver Wolf?"

"Read you loud and clear, Behemoth," replied Sergei, watching as the Chinook sluggishly moved into position, its great rotors throwing up a powerful downdraft as it hovered above the loading depot, buffeting at Sergei's long coat. A few seconds later, there was a sound of whining steel, and a thick steel cable descended from the chopper's underside, which tapered out into four separate hooks, dangling freely.

"Come comrades, hook her up," the Russian then ordered, as two of the remaining USF troopers began to grab for each of the hooks, and pulling them tight to clip them onto the UMF-013's transport frame, ready for it to be lifted out to safety, while Sergei and the remaining trooper stood their ground, firing at any zombie that came too close for comfort. Within a few minutes, all tethers were attached, and one of the troopers flashed Sergei a thumb's up.

"Cargo is secure," stated Sergei into his ear piece. "Behemoth, you have green light to extract to staging point Bravo. Signal Black Hornet to move in to extract."

"Roger that Silver Wolf, Behemoth out," replied the Chinook pilot, as he carefully guided his vehicle up and away, the UMF-013 rattling in place as it was lifted in its steel frame, and then it was being airlifted out of their reach, the Chinook's outline soon out of direct sight as it disappeared on the horizon, taking their objective with it.

A few moments later, the outline of their Blackhawk transport chopper, designation 'Black Hornet', appeared, moving in much faster than the Chinook had. As it began to move over the depot, Sergei and the troopers turned back towards the undead approaching them in the near distance, a group of nearly thirty of them now. They began to open fire in a conservative manner, cutting them down in small groups, keeping the others at a respectable distance.

"This is Black Hornet, coming in to land, over," radioed the Blackhawk pilot, as the vehicle began its descent, the downdraft beginning to stir up the light trash that littered the ground, even a few of the smaller zombies being knocked over by the sudden breeze. The sight would have been somewhat comical if the four humans still standing in the depot had any notion of a sense of humour.

Soon enough the chopper had touched down, gently rocking as it made contact with the ground, and the side doors slid open, allowing them to mount the vehicle. The USF troopers were first, taking up the seating bench to Sergei's right, whereas the huge Russian slid through into the seats into the compartment near the cockpit, opposite of another passenger in the Blackhawk, a man in a suit who had said practically nothing so far, tapping lazily at a laptop across his lap. Sergei ignored him as he turned towards the silhouettes of the two pilots in the cockpit and made the motion for them to take off.

With a brief nod, the main pilot pulled back the steering stick on the controls, and the Blackhawk lifted into the air, lurching slightly as it did so, leaving behind the body of the remaining USF agent with his guts falling out, the zombies remaining in the loading depot closing in on the fresh meant to gorge themselves, others dumbly reaching up at the departing chopper, unsure on how to react to such a sight.

Sergei casually looked down at the scene, as the Blackhawk turned away and began to depart, the scene of the Raccoon Umbrella HQ's loading depot and its glass face gradually disappearing as they rose above the city's skyline, the city streets below choked with countless shambling zombies, akin to scuttling ants from so high up. Turning away from the scene, Sergei tapped at his ear piece once more.

"This is Silver Wolf, the package has been secured," he spoke, "I repeat, the package is secure."

"Roger that Silver Wolf," replied a dull-sounding voice, through a screen of static. "Rendezvous at Staging point Beta to arrange secondary transport phase, over." Sergei double tapped his ear piece and leaned back into his seat, glancing lazily out the window at the smoking columns which emanated from Raccoon's blazing streets.

* * *

Dean Travers felt his entire body wracked with waves of agony as he was thrown against the wall for what seemed like the third time in the last few minutes. He landed in the seated position and rolled over onto his front, coughing roughly. "I'm getting tired of this shit," he then muttered as he began to push himself to his feet again, only to have to drop and roll once again as an oil drum sailed towards him and crashed against the wall, flattening like a pancake. The Tyrant screamed once more as it began to lumber after its intended target.

Dean was rapidly starting to lose hope, as even after unloading another barrage of shotgun shells and using up that cattle prod weapon on the Tyrant, the creature still showed no signs of slowing down, despite the blood and the ugly burns that coated its flesh. Maybe this B.O.W was a masterpiece after all: highly resistant to damage and incredibly fast and powerful to boot too. He was sure that he would have some pretty nice bruises on his body by the time the battle was over, but why he hadn't broken any bones yet was beyond him.

He ducked behind the cover of a still-standing support pillar, rummaging around inside his sidepack to see how much ammo he had left for his shotgun, and his fingers scooped up five shells- the last ones he had left, having exhausted the remainder of the enhanced shells during their first battle with the walking tank. Cursing under his breath, he slotted them into the weapon's magazine tube and racked it up, ready to fire.

"OK, here we go," he whispered to himself, reaching down to his hip for the S&W M29 revolver, his most powerful weapon he had right now. He only had a total of 12 rounds left for it, six in the weapon and another six in reserve, so he would have to make them all count. Checking the cylinder, before spinning it round and snapping it shut, he peered around the edge of the pillar to see where his opponent was.

He ducked just as a clubbed fist swung at his head, smashing through the pillar and showering him in grey dust, and he rolled away, avoiding a follow-up attack with razor-sharp claws. He backed away as the Tyrant came towards him, and he fixed his aim on its broad torso, his feet planted firmly on the ground. He let it come a little closer, arms raised to strike, before he pulled the trigger.

BLAM!

There was a jet of bright crimson fluid arching from its torso and the Tyrant screamed, taking a step backwards, its arms flailing wildly. Dean found he was accustomed to the weapon's massive recoil now, and he fired off another round, hitting the monster in the left shoulder and forcing it back even further. It roared at him in a deeper and tried to take a swipe towards him, but he fired off yet another shot, hitting it in the region just below its collarbone and causing it to stumble back even further.

"That's it you bastard, bleed!" he yelled, as a way to let off some steam as well as make himself feel better into the bargain. He then quickly took aim once again and fired off another shot, hitting the beast right between its eyes, and it staggered back even further, blood jetting out in a thick torrent as it clutched its clawed hand to its face, howling as it did so. Part of Dean wished that the bullet would have punched straight through its skull and into its brain, killing it instantly, but he guessed he would never be that lucky.

The Tyrant moaned loudly as it lashed out with its clawed arm, ramming one of the nearby steel boxes towards him at high speed, and he had to twist his body to the left in order to avoid the object, the breeze of it rushing past almost enough to knock him off of his feet. The case crashed against one of the support pillars closest to the train carriage, and it snapped open, scattering more weapons around.

Most of them were standard shotguns and assault rifles, though there was one thing that caught his eye. It was a green rectangular object, complete with a grip and a trigger unit mounted beneath the weapon casing, the front end marked with four open holes, the rear end extending out into four steel tube-like protrusions. But Dean recognised it almost immediately.

It was an M66 rocket launcher, initially developed for use in the Vietnam War. The last time Dean had seen one was when he saw the choppers for the now-defunct S.T.A.R.S teams being serviced, the weapon lockers on the vehicle's sides being unloaded, and each one carried an M66 launcher, which seemed a little overkill considering what the S.T.A.R.S normally partook in. But he wasn't going to complain about that just now.

_That's it!_

But of course, it would take time to use such an unwieldy weapon, and his opponent wasn't exactly a slouch. He cast a quick glance back to the Tyrant, which had just recovered from its latest wounds and screamed a battle cry once again, the sound piercing into his ear drums. Blood was caked all over its head region now, making it appear more demonic than ever, and it made another frenzied charge towards its human adversary, not giving him much time to think on his feet.

_Dammit, that launcher will have to wait for the moment._

He remained behind cover until the last second, and then threw himself forwards, in time to avoid the raking claws that sliced straight through the support pillar and would have taken his head off otherwise if he had done nothing. Even more dust coated his back, but he guessed it was better than being sliced into bloody ribbons as he turned himself over, still laying on his back, and fired off the last round in his magnum at the hulking figure he could see through the cascading concrete dust. There was another pained roar and the sound of fluid spraying onto the ground, but he ignored that, getting back to his feet and snapping the magnum cylinder open, letting the spent rounds drop to the floor, before pulling out the final speed loader he had left for the weapon and loading it up.

Six rounds left. Six magnum rounds and five shotgun shells, was all his life extended to. He knew fine well that if ran out of ammo then and there he wouldn't be able to kill the monster with just his Beretta- that would be testament to suicide. Which was why getting that rocket launcher was so important. It would hopefully kill the damned thing in one shot and make his escape much easier.

He snapped the magnum's cylinder shut and tucked it back at his waist, running up towards the M66, stooping down and hefting it up onto his shoulder with some effort required, making sure that the launch ports were facing the correct way. It felt as though he were hefting a massive boulder on his back, and he may as well as, considering the effort his body had been under through this battle.

"Come on, come on," he whispered to himself, stooping down on one knee and aiming the launcher towards the flailing Tyrant, waiting for it to stand still long enough for him to have a clear shot. A few seconds later, it finally ceased and turned towards him, screaming once more, as he fixed the launcher's sights over the middle of its broad torso, and pulling the trigger yoke.

_WHOOSH!_

The first rocket launched with a burst of smoke and fire and a serious amount of recoil, jumping almost vertically in Dean's hands and out of his grip. But the rocket flew thankfully straight, trailing a thick stream of white smoke behind it. The Tyrant remained standing in place, almost as though it were just waiting for the missile to slam into it, wiping it off the face of the earth. Dean just continued to kneel in place, waiting for the inevitable to happen-

-and then the Tyrant swung its right hand around at the last second, smacking the rocket with the back of its claws and literally knocking it off its intended course, sending it spinning away harmlessly into the far corner of the station. Dean just watched silently, mouth and eyes agape at what had just happened.

_No…NO!_

Then the missile impacted against the wall and detonated, a massive ball of flame tearing straight through the concrete and collapsing part of the ceiling, tearing through water pipes and electrical cables as though they were nothing, several of the lights in that corner shorting out, the shockwaves rushing through the entire room, nearly knocking Dean from his feet.

"Shit!" he cursed loudly as he looked back up at the Tyrant, which remained unaffected by the blast and continued to approach in plodding footsteps, growling in a low manner.

"Just give it a fucking rest!" he yelled at the monster as he quickly hefted the launcher onto his shoulder once more and fired off another rocket without taking the time to look down the sights, sending yet another projectile screaming towards the Tyrant.

This time, moving with a speed and agility it hadn't showcased before hand, it stepped to the left, barely avoiding the rocket, before its right hand shot out and simply grabbed the rocket out of mid air, nearly being pushed backwards by the rocket's propulsion system, continuing to clutch onto it with its immense strength as the rocket's fuel simply burned itself out, and finally became still, clutched in its massive paw.

"Oh you have to be freaking kidding me!" yelled Dean as the Tyrant slowly turned back towards him, with an evil look of glee in its single eye. It fixed its sight on the puny human before it and then began to bring its right arm back, still holding onto the rocket, looking as though it were about to throw a grenade. And then Dean's mind realised that even though its fuel had ran out, the rocket's warhead was still armed…and was aimed directly at him now.

"Oh fuck!" he cried, throwing the M66 away from him and making a mad dash for it, sprinting towards the nearest corner to try and get out of the Tyrant's range of vision, a arm back the full distance, before tossing it forwards, spinning it end over end almost as though it had just thrown a hand grenade. The rocket went spinning towards Dean's last position, but missed wide and instead impacted against the wall just besides the emergency train's front carriage.

BBBOOOOOOMMM!

There was a thunderous explosion from behind Dean, and the shockwave lifted him up, throwing him fully across the station and slamming him ribs first into another wall, the sheer shock almost causing him to pass out.

* * *

Ben Campbell stirred in his half-unconscious state at the sounds he could hear just outside of where he lay, from gunfire and the roars and screams of something inhuman, through to a couple of sudden explosions, the latest one sounding very close to where he was right now, rocking the train from front to end.

"Dean…" he whispered, wondering where his friend was now, the same friend he had known for most of his life, the same friend who had always stood by him, the same friend that had saved him from being killed by the bald-headed freak not too long ago.

And the same friend who would survive he horrors of this place, thanks to Ben's selfless act of sacrifice, directing the monster's full murderous attention onto him. Even despite the encouraging words that swam through his mind, he knew that he did not have much time left in this world.

* * *

Dean groaned in a quiet manner as he opened his eyes, being viewed with a side-on view of the dull, grey concrete which formed the emergency train platform. He felt the waves of agony coursing through his body, from where he had slammed into the wall after narrowly avoiding a rocket thrown head-on at him by the Tyrant. He blinked a few times, his hearing mute save for his own pained breathing, and he saw the M66 launcher once again, lying about 20 feet away, untouched in all the chaos.

That rocket had impacted into the wall just next to the train carriages, blowing a crater about 20 feet wide, flaming debris littering the ground, but thankfully the train itself was untouched, and that meant Ben was still safe. However, he wouldn't be if the Tyrant finished Dean off and went sniffing around for fresh prey.

"Rocket…launcher…" he gasped, rolling onto his front and clawing himself towards the weapon, each motion causing fresh waves of pain through his body, but he had to keep going, lest he be killed in a brutal manner. He was inching closer and closer to the launcher, each wide overhead sweep with his arms bringing him closer and closer to his salvation.

_Come on, just a little further…_

He was ripped out of his focus when he heard the thundering footsteps directly next to him, and he suddenly felt something sharp dig in through his jacket, lifting him up off of the ground with ease. It was only when he looked back, into a grinning, demonic face, that he began to thrash uncontrollably, desperate to free himself.

"No! Not now!" he cried, even as the Tyrant just growled in response and began to lift its other hand high, to deal the finishing blow. Dean continued to thrash like mad, and then realising he had no choice, he wriggled his arms out loose from the jacket sleeves, and he plummeted down onto the hard concrete knees-first, somehow not shattering both his kneecaps in the process. He scuttled forward on his hands and knees and looked back over his shoulder as he watched the Tyrant dumbly stare at the denim jacket hanging on its slender claws, before it flexed its hand and shredded the material into ragged strips, throwing them away onto the floor behind it. Dean stared at the shredded denim with a certain degree of sadness.

_Damn, I really liked that jacket…_

But he was lucky to lose only his favourite jacket, as the Tyrant screamed in fury and began to stride towards its downed prey once again, who just scurried back on his hands and rear, casting a quick glance at the M66 launcher. But he didn't get too far before the Tyrant was practically standing over him once again, swinging its clubbed fist down at high speed.

Dean screamed as he twisted his body to the right and shielded his head with his arms, the massive fists just punching a crater into the ground instead and coating him in even more grey dust, before he quickly twisted back to the left, avoiding the follow-up strike. Then screaming once more, the Tyrant reached down with its clawed arm and wrapped its thick fingers around Dean's body.

He cried out once more as the monster effortlessly lifted him off the ground, applying high pressure to his torso, crushing the air from his lungs. He found himself lifted up towards the Tyrant's grinning face, practically eye-to-eye with the monstrous beast. It leaned in closer, apparently examining him closely, and its fetid breath washed over him.

"Ugh…get a tic…tac," he gasped, as he continued to feel the breath crushed from his body. In response, the Tyrant screamed once again, this time directly into his face. Dean closed his eyes as he felt his skin buffeted by the high-speed breath, sickly drool spraying over his face.

_This is it, _he thought as the Tyrant ceased its screaming and started to prepare for the death blow. _This is how it's all going to end…at the hands of this freak of nature. _

The Tyrant began to raise its clubbed fist back, as Dean's vision started to darken, his end rapidly approaching. He couldn't do it. He couldn't kill the beast; it was far too strong, far too quick, and far too intelligent for him to best. He was going to die down in his godforsaken place, him and Ben, far away from their loved ones and homes.

But just as his eyes were beginning to shut, he saw the images flash through his mind. Images of green fields billowing in the breeze, of friendly faces on the street, of the shining clear river that gave his home town its name.

"Riverview…" he whispered.

Then another image sprang into his mind. He was in a well-furnished classroom, surrounded by at least two dozen other people, all of them barely into their teens, and he realised that he was back at Riverview High School…in Mr Hendrix's history class, his first ever class of his first ever year.

"_Travers! Eyes front, now!__ You can't learn about the forefathers if your head's in the clouds, can you boy?"_

"_No__ sir…"_

Several students around his younger self burst into giggles, including the boy with the blonde hair and blue eyes, directly in front of him. A few seconds later, the image changed, and he was out by a row of lockers, the same blonde haired boy standing in front of him.

"_Need to work on your attention span, right?"_

"_What's that supposed to mean?"_

"_Hey, I was just jesting, you know? Hendrix never gives anyone an easy ride, so don't feel bad."_

"_I guess."_

"_Hey, what's your name anyway? Never seen you around before?"_

"_Dean…Dean Travers. What about you?"_

"_Oh, I'm Ben, Ben Campbell."_

And then with that cocky grin that was unmistakable, the scene of the two friend's first meeting melted away, and Dean was back in the cold, concrete station of an Umbrella facility, about to be finished off by a 10 foot tall mutant with a bad case of halitosis.

"Ben.." he whispered, knowing full well that he had promised they would both get out of this place together. Feeling his strength returning to him, Dean reached down for the M29 tucked into his belt, and somehow managed to draw the weapon, raising his arm up and pushing the barrel right into the spot between the creature's eyes.

"I don't think so," he muttered, pulling the trigger.

BLAM!

He felt hot fluid spray onto his face, and the Tyrant relinquished its grip immediately, shrieking madly in pain as it staggered backwards. Dean hit the ground hard and his vision returned immediately, the impact knocking him out of his half-concious state, and he began to gasp for air, sucking in big lungfuls of oxygen. After a few seconds, he pushed himself onto his feet, coughing a few times as he did so, and he stood upright, somewhat unsteadily, shaking his head as he did so.

"Sorry…but I'm not giving up yet," he stated, looking over at the screaming Tyrant, before raising his magnum once again and firing. The shot punched into the Tyrant's stomach, almost causing it to double over in pain, before two more shots smacked into its torso, where its heart was, each hit electing a high-pitched screech of agony as it was forced further and further backwards.

Dean slowly advanced on the Tyrant as he fired off his remaining ammo for the magnum, making sure to place each shot carefully to cause the maximum damage. With two rounds remaining, he put the next bullet into its neck, and the final bullet hit it in its remaining eye, snapping its head back and drawing an even louder screech from the monster as it slammed against the wall behind it, hands clasped to its head to try and stop the bleeding, though the ground was already slick with blood.

Dean tossed the M29 aside, and looked back, towards the M66 launcher lying abandoned on the station floor, just waiting for someone to use it. Knowing he had two rockets left, Dean couldn't afford to mess around now, and he made a mad dash to collect the weapon once again. By the time he had reached it, he heard a familiar roar and glanced back to see the Tyrant lumbering after him once again, this time at a much slower pace, blood streaming from its recent wounds, leaving the ground slick.

"Got you on the ropes now," taunted Dean loudly, as he hefted the launcher once more and took aim, setting the sights over the Tyrant's crimson-slicked torso. He allowed it to take a few more steps before he pulled the trigger.

_WHOOSH!_

The rocket launched much like the last too, a trail of white smoke chasing the missile as it screamed towards its target, and much like the last time, the Tyrant bought up its clawed hand and grabbed onto the rocket as though it were deflecting a bottle rocket, holding it away from its front as its propulsion fuel burned out. But Dean was prepared this time, and he carefully set the launcher down, and bought his S.P.A.S 12 around, loaded with five shells, which meant he only had five shots to get this right. Remaining on one knee, he aimed towards the Tyrant's right arm and fired.

BOOM!

The buckshot ripped into the Tyrant's lower arm, and it shrieked once more, its arm flinching, but still holding onto the rocket. He continued to fire off the last shells he had left, each shot missing the mark by whatever distance, be it a couple of yards through to just a few inches, the penultimate shot ripping off one of the creature's long talons in a fountain of blood.

With one round of buckshot left, Dean wiped his brow with the back of his left hand, and took careful aim down the sights, knowing fine well that if he messed this up then he wouldn't get another chance.

"Come on, just stand still you ugly bitch," he whispered, waiting as the Tyrant continued to thrash from its recent wounds, before extending its right arm out, the now-still missile providing an almost perfect target. He closed one eye, sighted up, and squeezed the trigger.

BOOM!

There was the loud retort of the shotgun going off, quickly followed by an even larger eruption of noise.

The missile exploded in the Tyrant's hand, and Dean turned his head away to shield his face from the sheer heat of the explosion, the whole room being lit up like the Christmas tree from the blast, combined with the pained shrieking of the huge mutant. As the explosion died down, Dean looked back.

The Tyrant stumbled backwards, screaming in an impossibly loud tone, its right arm completely severed from just above the elbow, the rest of its body marked with recent scorch marks, chunks of stinking meat littering the station floor. The Tyrant continued to scream as it stared at its severed arm, seemingly dazed by what had just happened.

Knowing that he wouldn't get another moment like this again, Dean dropped his empty shotgun and turned back towards the M66, with one rocket left loaded into its tubes, and scooped it up, ignoring the severed claw of the Tyrant which lay just a few feet away. He sighted up the launcher once again, fixing the crosshairs over middle of its chest. The Tyrant looked straight at him as he flexed his fingers around the trigger yoke.

"Game over," he said simply, before pulling the yoke.

The missile flew perfectly straight, covering the distance to the target within a couple of seconds. The Tyrant continued to stand there, before it emmited yet another screech, right up until the rocket impacted against the very front of its muscular torso.

BBBOOOOOOMMM!

There was a thunderous explosion as the Tyrant's body was swallowed in a massive ball of flame, Dean almost knocked from his feet by the stinging shockwave which slammed into him full force. He heard the splattering of chunks of meat hitting solid surfaces, and after a few seconds more, he looked back towards where the Tyrant used to be standing a short time before. The smoke cleared, revealing what was left of his opponent. The Tyrant's head and most of its upper torso had been blown away entirely by the rocket blast, leaving just its soot-smeared legs, the left side of its torso, and its left arm, which just hung limply from its socket now. The ground around the creature was littered with huge chunks of charcoaled, stinking flesh, small pools of fire burning amongst them.

The scorched remains took a couple more shaky steps forwards, as though trying desperately to extend what little time it had left, and then they finally crashed face-first onto the ground, falling totally silent.

The Tyrant was finally dead.

"Take _that, _jerkweed!" called Dean, bursting into fits of relieved laughter as he slumped back onto his rear, dropping the now empty rocket launcher, and just staring across at the corpse, letting his laughter peel out across the station. He continued to sit there for what seemed like an age, letting the relief wash over him like a cooling sea breeze.

Eventually, he knew that he still had a wounded friend to get out of the city, and he dragged himself to his feet, his whole body aching all over, especially in his arms, probably due to the monstrous recoil from the M66. After spending a few more moments checking himself over for any visible wounds, he began to stagger back towards the train carriage, leaving his empty weapons behind. There was no more need to carry them, after all.

He slapped the door control on the first carriage and the door slid open with a whoosh, exposing Ben, laid out on the medical bunk, exactly where Dean had left him a short while before. He just stood there for a few moments, musing on how comfortable it looked to just lie down then and there and take a quick nap, but Ben was still in a precarious state, and he couldn't afford to waste anymore time.

He dragged himself back into the control room, staring at where he had left the master key, in what was effectively the train's ignition control. He approached the console and twisted the key, being rewarded with a resounding 'click' of it activating the train systems, and almost immediately the numerous lights and screens on the control panel lit up, tracing lines of blue, green and red across the plain steel controls.

The front lamps of the train burst into life too, exposing about 30 feet of the tunnel in front of him, flanked by a narrow maintenance walkway on each side of the expanse. Who knew how far this thing went?

He cast a glance to his right and saw the previously blank screen was now glowing a dull green colour, and it displayed a message in large letters.

'_POWER RESTORED. INITIATE AUTO PILOT SYSTEM.'_

"Auto pilot, auto pilot," he whispered to himself, looking around the panel some more, until his eyes caught the sight of a large lever at the left hand side, with a small white sign beneath it which simply read 'Auto pilot control'. Knowing there was nothing left to lose, he grabbed onto the lever and pushed it forward as far as he could manage, until he heard a resounding 'clunk' from somewhere in front of and slightly below him, closely followed by other dull noises from elsewhere on the train. He looked back towards the small status screen.

'_AUTO PILOT INITIATED. TRAIN EN ROUTE TO MARBLE RIVER STOPOVER.'_

Then he was suddenly thrown off balance when the train lurched forward suddenly, and he could hear the grinding of the heavy steel wheels spinning into life, and then the engine room was moving forwards, into the tunnel, towards the city limits, hopefully. He sighed in relief a she stared ahead, the train picking up speed.

"OK, looks like things are finally looking up," he whispered.

* * *

Meanwhile, across the country in Umbrella's New York HQ, the company's Board of Directors had gathered once more in the massive conference room, 12 of the most powerful persons in Umbrella's hierarchy, alongside its CEO, Ozwell Spencer. All thirteen sat in silence right now, just contemplating everything that had been discussed over the last few days. The dark circles underneath their eyes indicated that little sleep had been gathered in the fall out since the Raccoon City outbreak. But the board had to contend with the worst imaginable scenario for the near future. Raccoon City was beyond salvation, and the only solution was total decontamination measures, also known as Mission Code XX in the US armed forces. The city would be wiped off of the face of the earth, using the very weapons intended the protect the people in the first place.

"So you all know what is at stake?" asked Lord Spencer eventually, and he was greeted by a number of slow nods from most of the directors. "If any of this is linked back to us…then all of our hard work will be for naught.

The directors continued to sit and listen, hanging off of their CEO's every single word. Only one person there did not pay any attention though: the New York director, Daniel Lindeman, just stared directly ahead of him, his hands clasped on the heavy oak table before him. He had heard nothing from his contact in the Raccoon area, but he knew fine well what was going to happen.

"…sacrifices will need to be made, of course, scapegoats selected if it comes to that," finished Spencer, pausing to clear his throat with a few hacking coughs before he continued. "But we have come too far to lose everything now. Even if it sets us back 30 years, we will not let it slow us down."

"So what of all the test data?" asked James Ramsey, the London director.

"Already Sergei has succeeded in extracting the UMF-013 core from our Raccoon HQ, and it will be transferred to a new facility," answered Spencer.

"OK, and how do we explain more of our helicopters within a restricted fly zone?" asked Jin Nakamura, the Tokyo director. "We barely got away with it when we flew the U.B.C.S into the city-"

"We will find a way," replied Spencer firmly, cutting off the Japanese man. "We always have done, and we always will." Nakamura backed down instantly, turning his head away to avoid direct eye contact, as Spencer turned his attention to Christine Henri, the Paris director.

"What other projects are lined up, Christine?" asked Spencer, using the woman's first name in a rather informal manner, something that made a few of the other director's bristle in annoyance.

"Lord Spencer, our Nemesis programme still shows great promise," she replied, with a trace of French accent. A born American, she was only starting to adopt the accent of her work country. "The specimen deployed into Raccoon is still showing vital signs and carrying out its given mission orders…its proving even more successful than any of us could predict."

"I see," replied Spencer, "but if Mission Code XX is to go ahead, then the specimen must be abandoned." Henri nodded in confirmation.

"Of course, Lord Spencer," she replied with a menacing smirk. "The S.T.A.R.S cannot survive forever."

"And what if your glorious Nemesis fails?" asked Ramsay sarcastically. "Then what? The S.T.A.R.S would still prove a threat!"

"We will cross that bridge if we come to it," replied Spencer. "Nemesis is still viable, and there is still time before the city is destroyed. Even if the surviving S.T.A.R.S manage to destroy the Nemesis, they won't be able to evacuate the city in good time. They will perish among the flames."

"All very convenient, isn't it?" asked another voice at the far end of the table, and all eyes swivelled to look at Lindeman, who had finally spoken for the first time this session. "If our B.O.W's fail us, then providence will save us all. How very convenieant..."

"Lindeman?" asked Spencer quietly. "You wish to address the Board?"

"I do, my Lord," replied Lindeman, rising to his feet and buttoning up the front of his jacket. "And I believe what I have to say is vital for all of us." Spencer continued to glare at Lindeman for a while, before he finally conceded, leaning back in his wheelchair.

"As you wish," replied the CEO.

Lindeman slowly began to move around the large table, looking each of his fellow directors in the eye directly, and it wasn't until that he was standing almost beside Spencer that he finally spoke, and his opening statement was somewhat scathing.

"You're all a bunch of bloody fools."

There was a long silence immediately after that remark, and several of the directors bristled in anger, while Spencer just fixed Lindeman with a hard glare.

"What did you say, you damn prick?" stormed Ramsay as he rose to his feet, but Lindeman whirled on him.

"Oh will you shut up for once James, you miserable sycophant." The London director just stared, eyes wide in shock, but Lindeman ignored him as he addressed the others. "It's all nice, you sitting here around a big table and discussing our future in B.O.W development, but aren't you all forgetting the bigger picture?" he asked, leaning on the table in between Henri and the Moscow director, Mikhail Lazaravic.

"And what is the bigger picture?" asked Mikhail in his broken English.

"We are effectively consigning over 100,000 U.S citizens to their deaths, 100,000 people who reside in our official home in the United States," explained Lindeman, standing up and walking around the table once again. "What if this happens again? What, if it happens in a much larger city, like Chicago, or Virginia, or even New York City?" Spencer remained silent throughout all of Lindeman's monologue, keeping his anger in check, waiting for an opportune moment to offer his reaction.

"Even if we better educate our workers as to the danger of viral spills and take more necessary precautions, you cannot provide for every eventuality," explained Lindeman, continuing to circle the table, the eyes of the other directors following him like hawks. "What if someone gets greedy, tries to sell the virus on the black market? His theft of the virus goes south, and he gets shot, the virus spreads..."

"What is your point, Lindeman?" asked Spencer angrily, his patience wearing thin. Lindeman offered a little smirk before replying.

"The point is, Lord Spencer, something of this size cannot be brushed under the carpet so easily, and even if it is, it would only be a matter of time before something else happens to knock our fortunes," he stated. "I just find it amusing that you are making plans for the company's future after agreeing to destroy an entire city."

"You voted for the action, did you not, Mr Lindeman?" asked Henri. He gave her a withering glare in response.

"Only because if I had voted against it, it would be eleven to one. Now, I'm not expert in mathematics, but I'm sure me voting against the rest of you wouldn't even be worth the effort," replied the New York director with scorn, moving towards the door, before reaching inside of his jacket and removing a plain brown envelope, sliding it across the table so it stopped in front of Spencer.

"What is this?" asked the CEO after a few seconds.

"My resignation, effective immediately," replied Lindeman calmly.

There was a deadly hush from around the room, some of the other directors whispering amongst themselves. It had been a very long time in the company's history since one of the Board of Directors had stepped down under their own admission. And at such a crisis as well.

"Is this some sort of joke?" demanded the Sydney director. "You're leaving the company, at a time like this?"

"You've already decided on Raccoon City's fate, so you no longer need me," explained Lindeman. "But no matter how well you all cover it up, no matter how much money we throw at the problem…its only a matter of time before our hand is revealed. And then you'll all have to answer for it. Better I get out now then before the inevitable happens."

The silence continued, even as Lindeman continued to walk towards the main double doors to leave the conference room, facing Spencer's back, who still refused to face the New York director. Once he was next to the doors, Lindeman turned and pointed an accusing finger towards Spencer.

"That man will lead you all into ruin, mark my words," he said firmly. "Whether you get out or not is up to you, but whatever you do, I trust you will all make the right decision." Then he turned back and threw the doors open, looking over his shoulder one more time. "I have already appointed someone to take over our New York division," he explained. "It's all in my resignation letter, Lord Spencer. You are all free to continue using my facilities until the crisis is over." And with that, he stepped through and let the doors slam shut behind him. No sooner than they had, did the other directors erupt into protest.

"Who the hell does he think he is?"

"What's stopping him from going to the press? He'll hang us all out to dry to save his own skin!"

"Goddamn snake in the grass!"

"Enough!" barked Spencer, and the others immediately hushed. The withered CEO calmly opened the envelope before him and quickly read over the resignation letter, indentifying Lindeman's successor to Umbrella's New York facilities.

"This is all in order," the CEO announced finally, tossing the letter away. "Perfectly legitimate, even at a time like this."

"But Lord Spencer-" began Ramsay.

"We have more pressing matters to concern ourselves with," continued Spencer, almost as though the London director had never opened his mouth in the first place.

"But what's stopping him going to the press?" stormed Nakamura.

"Lindeman isn't an idiot," retorted Spencer. "He wouldn't dare risk having himself taken down with the rest of us. And as I explained, we have other things to worry about." With that, the other directors seemed to have been calmed, even as Spencer glanced over his shoulder, his brow furrowed in anger.

Back in the main corridor, Lindeman retrieved his cell phone from his jacket pocket and dialled in the number for his contact in the Raccoon area. He was just pressing the button to call the elevator when he heard a reply.

"Yes?"

"Its official," stated Lindeman as the lift doors opened, revealing an empty space, and he stepped inside. "I am no longer director for Umbrella's New York division." There was a period of silence from the other line.

"So you'll leave them behind then?" asked the contact. "And what of my reason for being here?"

"Do not worry, your objectives still stand," reassured Lindeman as he hit the button for the ground floor. "Keep monitoring the situation, and keep an eye on anyone who knows more than they should. You know what I mean by that."

"Why of course," purred the mystery voice. "You can count on me, as always."

"I'll have the remainder of your payment wired to the offshore account as soon as possible. I still have a few affairs to deal with before I leave for my new life."

"Mr Lindeman?" asked the voice suddenly. "It was a pleasure working for you."

"No, the pleasure was all mine, Matthew," replied Lindeman with a smirk, before hitting the button to end the call.

* * *

The train journey was much quicker than he initially expected.

Within five minutes of leaving the station, Dean had to raise his hand up to shield his eyes from an intense light that suddenly filled the compartment, and it took him a few seconds to realise exactly what it was: daylight.

_We made it…_

He lowered his arms, and saw the train was now travelling through lush green countryside, thick bundles of trees dotting the side of the tracks, rays of sunshine dancing down through the branches. He just stared in wonder as the train hurtled on, taking them both to safety, or so he hoped. He didn't know how far outside the city limits they would be taken, or if this was even on the military's radar.

He'd soon find out though, as he could feel the train decelerating, and heard the screech of the brakes being applied, and Dean peered through the thick glass windows to see what looked like a wooden shack coming up on the train's left side, next to a raised concrete ramp, which he assumed to be the intended stop off station. He bit his lip anxiously as the train lurched into a snail's pace, and then finally coming to a halt against a set of buffers.

From here, he could see the shack clearly now, its wooden frame still in remarkably good condition, indicating that someone had been posted here consistently, consistently enough to devote some time to keeping it in good condition. There was a lone glass window on the side nearest to the train, the glass frosted up and impossible to see through. There was a single door as well, hanging lazily off of its hinges, half open. It was impossible to tell if someone was still hanging around, or if the virus had claimed them. Either way, there was only one way to find out.

He made his way into the carriage, casting a quick glance at Ben, who remained flat out, eyes closed, mumbling something to himself. Dean had to stop himself from saying 'Stay here', as it was clear that Ben wasn't going anywhere, not in his current state. Dean sighed, at his own stupidity, before he drew his Beretta from the holster and stood next to the exit door, counting down from three before hitting the door release and stepping outside.

It was a cooling sensation, feeling the early afternoon breeze upon his skin, something he had not experienced for a few days now. He just stood for a few seconds, eyes closed, breathing in the clean air, unspoiled by the stench of rotted corpses and spilled blood. Then he realised that they could still be in danger, and he opened his eyes, looking towards the half-open door a few feet away. He approached slowly, looking around to see if anything else were approaching, but there were no signs of life in the small clearing the station occupied. Strange, considering they were out in the forest. He came within a couple of feet of the door, and peered inside, seeing nothing from his current position.

Until he noticed the smear of blood on the wooden floorboards, leading out of sight.

_Typical…_

He reached out and took a hold of the door handle with his left hand, and waited for a few moments before pushing it open, the door creaking loudly as it did, before making a loud crash as it smacked against the inside wall. Dean stepped inside, weapon raised-

-only to be met by silence and a lot of empty space. He lowered his Beretta slowly as he glanced around the empty cabin, barely large enough to accommodate a pair of guards at the most. Across from him were a few storage lockers, one of them swinging open freely, and to his right was an old fashioned and bulky-looking radio unit, complete with a small microphone on a stand, and a lone wooden seat before it. Glancing behind him, he saw a wooden table with some playing cards left out, along with an ashtray where a few cigarettes had been stubbed out. Near to the table were some coathooks, one of them holding a plain black jacket with the Umbrella logo on the sleeve.

"This was definitely used by Umbrella personnel," Dean mused to himself, before looking back at the blood stains on the floor at his feet. There was enough blood to suggest someone had been killed, or at the very least wounded badly, and it was enough to leave him on edge. He looked around again, his eyes catching sight of a small wooden crate stored in the far corner next to the lockers. Curiously, he walked over and crouched down, sliding off the crate's lid to expose its contents: several distress flares, covered with a few cobwebs, but looking in working condition either way.

"These could come in handy," he muttered, picking two out of the crate and tucking them into his belt, just as heard an all-too familiar sound from somewhere outside.

"Ugghhh…"

"Shit!" he cursed, turning and raising his Beretta, aiming it towards the still wide-open doorway. He could hear the dragging of feet now, coming towards him, but it only sounded like one zombie was out there…no trouble at all for him, considering what he had just been through against the Tyrant. He approached the door carefully, before quickly stepping out onto the outdoor platform and turning behind him, in the direction of the footsteps, in time to see the zombie.

It was a man once, about his height and with shortly cropped blonde hair, dressed from head to toe in black, much like the slain security guards inside the storage facility. He showed no other distinguishing features of signs of injury, save for the blood smeared down the front of his black shirt, and the hollow zombie eyes of course. The man issued another soft groan as he took a few more shaky steps towards its new intended prey, one arm outstretched. Shaking his head in pity, Dean opened fire.

BANG!

The gunshot screamed through the relative quiet of the forest clearing, smacking into the man's forehead and knocking him off of his feet, landing in a crumpled heap without much else of a fanfare. No sooner than he had done was another moan heard and he swung behind him to see a second zombie appear from around the side of the cabin, dressed exactly like the first one, except this one had the front of its neck ripped out, likely killed by his 'colleague' who had become infected and turned. Dean put a round through the middle of his face, dropping him too.

With both zombies disposed of, Dean quickly crossed back to the wide-open doorway into the train carriage, realising that Ben's eyes were most of the way open now. He looked round at Dean, seemingly able to still recognise his old friend.

"Dean…where are we?" he asked, his voice still low and hoarse.

"We're outside the city buddy, don't worry," assured Dean, holstering his Beretta and moving up to help Ben up onto his feet. He spent a few seconds making sure that both were able to move around comfortably, before he began to help Ben towards the doorway, into the fresh air.

"You smell that?" asked Dean as they just stood there on the open air platform. "Fresh air, like we always used to have back home in Riverview." Ben made an effort to suck in a big gulp of air through his nostrils.

"Yeah, I smell it," he laughed, very slightly, before he winced once more, nearly doubling over in pain.

"Easy, easy," urged Dean. "Don't do too much, it was a small miracle you've made it this far." He then looked around, spotting a small dirt trail nearby which trailed up towards the peak of a nearby grassy hill. As he could see no other routes nearby, he began to support Ben towards the path.

"Come on, this way," he whispered.

"Are we nearly there?" asked Ben as they slowly descended the sloping end of the platform onto the grass, still damp from the morning dew.

* * *

The small chopper buzzed over what remained of Raccoon City, the downdraft of its rotors stirring the smoky pillars that rose up towards the heavens. One of the men aboard, an African American in his early thirties wearing the garb of the Raccoon City Fire Department, leaned out the side with a megaphone, yelling into it.

"This is the Raccoon City Fire Department! If anyone down there is still alive, then please make yourselves known and we will pick you up! There is still hope!"

He paused for a few seconds, his throat hoarse from yelling so much these past two hours. And in that time, the only movement they could see down on the streets were from these zombies that had plagued the town since a few days beforehand. He sighed heavily and raised his megaphone again to speak again.

"Forget it Charlie," sighed Barry, the other fireman at the controls. "We've been out for two hours and we've found no-one."

"But we can't just give up now!" retorted Charlie, desperately. Having already lost his brother in this living nightmare, he was determined not to let anyone else still living follow a similar fate.

"Fuel gauge says we can," muttered Barry, tapping at the small dial next to the control stick, which hovered just above the empty hash on the thick glass. "We've got about 15 more minutes, max. Charlie looked over into the cockpit for several seconds, before he rubbed his face tiredly, muttered a curse or two and turned away.

"Fine," he said finally, tossing the megaphone onto the floor, defeated. "Take us back." He sat himself against the wall just as the chopper lurched about, heading back towards the checkpoint, where no doubt the good Lieutenant Fletcher would be waiting to give them both the hairdryer treatment.

* * *

Dean carefully set Ben down against the trunk of a nearby tree, at the very edge of a small copse of trees on the raised hill. Ben sighed as he was set down, more in pain than anything else, Dean walking away a short distance to check out the area some more. Walking to the edge of the hill, he looked out across Raccoon City, the sun's rays warming his face.

From this vantage point, he could see all the way across the far side of the city. He could even make out St Michaels clock tower, though it were just a small jutting fixture from here. He could also see the Warren Stadium, City Hall, the R.P.D building…hell, he could see all of the city's landmarks from here, all of them overshadowed by the massive glass skyscraper of the Umbrella HQ building at the very nucleus of the town. In the past, this would probably have made a very nice picnic spot.

Except now, he could see the countless fires that ravaged the city, great swathes of black smoke pouring into the early afternoon sky, almost blocking out the sun. This was his home for the past two years, the homes for several good friends he had made in that time…and now it was a mere shell of its former self: rotted to the sight, almost like a metaphor of its zombified population. There was no way Raccoon would be able to recover from something of this magnitude: even if the military came in and wiped out all the zombies, it would likely take years to rebuild the town to its former affluent state.

But one other thing was certain: Dean and Ben had spent the last few days fighting through that hell to get this far. And now, having got outside the city itself into the countryside, there was no clear way as to where to go next. The only dirt path lead up here, a virtual dead end, while there was no way he could drag Ben through the forest proper. Who knew what was lurking in those trees?

He sank to his knees, despair creeping through his entire body. He shook his head as the magnitude of the situation set in. "No…" he whispered to himself. "No, not after coming this far…"

"NOOO!" he screamed into the sky, slamming his fists into the soil several times, breathing harshly, and then eventually just breaking down into tears. It was hopeless.

_What could one man ever hope to achieve?_

He leaned back again, letting the sun shine down on him once more, his sobs gradually dying away, tears burning his face. He wiped a filthy hand across his cheeks, clearing them away, and looked over at Ben, who just looked over towards him, eyes barely open.

"What's wrong?" he asked, hoarsely. "Its not…over yet…" Dean just stared, blinking.

"No, no its not," he smiled, shaking his head, seeing that Ben's optimism still shone through his badly wounded state. He stared directly ahead, and then suddenly blinked, focusing on something small in the distance.

"Is that…?" he asked, squinting.

He saw it clear as day a few seconds later. It was a chopper, a small civilian model in a blue and white paint scheme, travelling away from the city centre to the east.

"Yes…yes!" he cried, jumping to his feet and waving his arms frantically, screaming as loud as he could manage. "Hey! Over here!"

He jumped up and down on the spot, waving and screaming, but the chopper was getting further away, out of reach…and soon it would be out of reach forever.

_Come on Dean, think, think!_His mind screamed, before he had a sudden jolt of an idea.

"That's it!" he cried, reaching behind him and pulling the distress flares from his belt, cradling them in his hands. After spending a few seconds of examing them, he ripped off the head of one of them, and he was almost blinded by a great burst of bright green light and smoke that poured from the flare. He quickly did the same with the other one and held onto them tightly, one in each hand.

_Please work…_

He sprinted back down the slope as fast as his legs could manage, ignoring the burning heat from the flares that made him sweat irritably. Once he was back on level ground he waved his arms above his head, tracing x-shaped bursts of green smoke above his head, the chopper remaining on its current course.

"HEY! Over here!"

* * *

Charlie stared directly ahead, at the plain steel partition wall before him, lost in his thoughts. This whole idea had been a massive waste of time, he had decided. Two hours wasted to try and find some sign of life in that ruin, all for nought. And when they got back the Lieutenant would bite both their heads off in an instant. He turned his head to the side, peering out of the side hatch over the rolling green features of the Arklay Forest, once a beautiful attraction for countless tourists to the region, but now as abandoned and lifeless as the city itself. What a sad fate to befall his home town he had decided.

Lately he constantly felt that he had been unable to do enough to save the people of Raccoon. It had only been a few days ago that he and the rest of his crew had been dispatched out to tackle a massive fire which was gutting a storage place in downtown Raccoon. Soon as the job was done he looked down the street to see a few people staggering towards them, clearly wounded, but when his colleague Matt went to try and help, he found his throat ripped out savagely. Initially Charlie assumed that the cannibal murders from beforehand had suddenly escalated to a much large scale, but when the engine tore back to the station, he quickly realised it was something different, something akin to the apocalypse shown in the Biohazard movie series. He and Barry barely managed to get as far as the city limits and the military checkpoints, where they were extracted after a quick once-over by the medics there.

Since then, they had helped out in whatever capacity they could manage, but half the time he felt as though they were sitting on their hands, wasted potential. Once they were moved even further back from the city, he knew that was the last straw. The decision to take the chopper and fly over Raccoon had been a spur of the moment thing, and rapidly one that was looking to be a wasted venture.

He suddenly paused when he saw something else in the distance, just above the trees. Green smoke. Bright green smoke trailing into the sky, the universal sign of a distress signal.

"Barry! Barry! Over there!" he cried, slapping his friend's shoulder and pointing out of the window towards the smoke. Barry turned and did a quick double take.

"I'll be damned…is that distress smoke?"

"It sure is," stated Charlie excitedly. "Take us around now!"

"On it!" yelled Barry back a she wrenched the chopper's control stick around in a tight circle, nearly throwing Charlie out of the side hatch, but the man held on for dear life, clutching his megaphone in case it would be needed.

Soon enough they were hovering above the source of the smoke, a small clearing within the forest, concealing what looked like a wooden shack next to a parked industrial train, an ugly box-shaped thing with orange and yellow stripe colouration, just parked up stationary next to a plain concrete platform. Suffice to say, it looked totally out of place in the middle of the Arklay Forest, but Charlie was too exhausted to think about it right now.

In the middle of the clearing was a single figure, waving a pair of green distress flares above his head frantically, desperately trying to attract the attention of anyone who was within range. It was hard to tell his exact features from up here, but Charlie could see that he was covered in blood and grey dust, looking as though he'd been to hell and back.

"Hey!" he screamed as he sank to his knees. "Down here!"

Charlie raised his megaphone up and shouted down, "We'll set her down! Give us some space!" At the sound of those instructions, the figure struggled back to his feet and tossed the flares to the ground, before turning and racing off elsewhere, heading towards a small hill at the side of the clearing.

"Where the hell is he going?" asked Barry as he slowly down, its landing gears resting on the damp grass, the rotors rustling the trees at the edge of the clearing, making it impossible to tell if anyone or anything was sneaking up on the landed chopper. Charlie peered out the side hatch, and he could just see the man from before slowly making his way back towards the chopper…supporting another man across his shoulders.

"Shit, someone's wounded up there!" he yelled, moving to hop out of the chopper and run to help out.

* * *

"Come on Ben, there's a chopper just there, its going to take us out of here," whispered Dean as he helped Ben back down the gentle slope towards the idle chopper, parked in the centre of the clearing, its rotors buffeting them with its downdraft. He glanced down at Ben's bandaged torso, to see the deep red seeping through the white gauze, his wounds opened up once again.

"Shit," he muttered, as he saw a figure drop out of the chopper, an African-American in a black and yellow fireman's outfit. "Help! He's hurt badly!"

"OK, OK!" said the fireman frantically as he carefully moved around opposite Dean and carefully laid Ben's other arm across the back of his shoulders. "Come on, we can get him back to the checkpoint soon as we're in the air!"

"What's going on?" asked Ben, his voice barely a whisper as he was half-walked, half-dragged across the grass towards their escape vehicle, but then he lowered his head and groaned in a low manner.

"We're getting out Ben, we're going to safety!" replied Dean, trying to be as cheerful as he could manage, despite the seriousnous of his friend's current state. Once they were beside the chopper, both men carefully lifted Ben back-first into the chopper's fuselage, laying him out carefully, before hoisting his legs in one by one, making him as comfortable as they could manage.

"You got any medical supplies?" yelled Dean as he pulled himself into the chopper.

"No!" shouted back the fireman. "But we can easily get back to the checkpoint, I assure you!"

"Well you'd better hurry up then!" shouted Dean back angrily, even as the fireman motioned for his friend to take off, and after a couple of shaky seconds the vehicle lifted up into the air, leaving the forest clearing behind. Dean remained focused on his friend, until the fireman spoke up again.

"Look!" he cried, pointing out the side, and as much as he didn't want to, Dean glanced up, half-expecting to see the charred remains of that damned Tyrant dragging itself towards them, ready to deny his final escape from Raccoon.

But thankfully, it was only a single zombie, staggering out from the treeline, almost knocked off its feet by the chopper rotors downdraft. It was dressed in outdoor wear, including a bright orange windbreaker, probably a camper or a game hunter. It extended its arms out as it began to approach, and a few seconds later a couple more dressed in similar attire emerged on either side. But by then the chopper was too far off of the ground for the undead to pose anything remotely resembling a threat.

"So long, gutbags!" yelled Dean as the chopper turned and peeled away, leaving the zombies and the clearing behind- and more importantly, leaving the hell hole that was Raccoon City behind. Dean continued to stare out of the side for a long time, watching the city as it burned, before he finally turned away towards his friend.

"His pulse is weak," stated the fireman, taking his fingers away from the side of Ben's neck. "He doesn't have long."

"Thanks for the update," growled Dean angrily as he pulled himself closer to Ben's face, closing his hand around Ben's right hand. He felt his friend's fingers squeeze back, a reassuring sign that he was still self-aware.

"Where are we?" asked Ben, his eyes closed.

"We're above the Arklay Forest…leaving the city," replied Dean. "We made it Ben, we made it!" The joy in his voice was unmistakeable, and Ben's fingers squeezed a little harder.

"Good…" he whispered, his lips twisting up into a smile. "We going home?"

"Yes, we're going home Ben," replied Dean, his voice full of conviction. "We're going home so we can see our families and everyone else we know again…"

"Good," whispered Ben, before he managed to open his eyes fully. "They'll be glad to see you again Dean…your parents…and Lisa..."

Dean fell silent as he realised what Ben was referring to. 5 years, he had turned his back on Riverview and walked out on his parent's home, his intended future, just like that. Initially he had told himself he was fulfilling his own destiny, but lately he came to feel as though it was an incredibly selfish thing of him to do. He felt he would never be welcome home again.

"Life's too short Dean," continued Ben, his blue eyes starting to dim. "See your family again…they still love you, they always will…"

"I know man, I know," whispered Dean back, his eyes growing heavy with tears. Just beside him, the fireman remained utterly silent. "You always did know things better than me."

"Damn straight," laughed Ben, before he suddenly erupted into a fit of wracking coughs, blood bubbling out of his mouth.

"Ben!" cried Dean, maintaining an iron grip on his friend's hand as the fireman quickly wiped the blood away carefully with a clea handerchief.

"Dean…live your life…forget about the past" whispered Ben, his eyes closing once again. "I'm sorry…about everything…but it was an honour-"

"Ben! Don't talk like that-!"

"-to have been your friend…Dean…so sorry…"

Ben's voice issued one last sigh, long and drawn-out, before his head slumped to the side, his grip on Dean's fingers finally fading away as he fell still. There was a dreadful silence in the chopper as Dean just stared down at his friend, ignoring the roaring of the rotors directly above his head.

"Ben?" he asked, voice barely a whisper. He grabbed onto his friend's hand again, trying to get him to show some kind of response. "Come on Ben, don't do this to me, don't you _dare _do this to me now…"

The fireman said nothing, he just lowered his head and rubbed his tired face.

"Ben, come on man!" half-yelled Dean, holding onto Ben's cold fingers with both hands now, demanding his friend reply to him. "Don't do this to me! We're both going back home, we're both going to see our families again right?" His voice was beginning to waver now, in danger of breaking up.

"Don't you dare do this to me now, you selfish bastard!" he screamed, tears streaming from his eyes. "Don't you dare…" he then repeated, in between painful sobs, his head lowered. "Don't…please don't…"

Everything else around him blurred out of focus. All he could think about was the fact that Ben Campbell, his closest friend for over 12 years, had just faded away right before his eyes. He always thought that they would both live to be old and grey. After all they had been through together…

He didn't even notice the fact they were coming in to land.

* * *

Cameron glanced up as he saw the small chopper coming into land, but it was impossible to tell if the brave firemen had bought anyone alive back with them. He sighed and lowered his gaze again, feeling the powerful downdraft billow his loose clothing, as he saw Travis approaching from his left.

"Allright man?" he asked, over the whirling rotors. The chopper finally touched down about 50 yards away, a few troopers rushing up to help if needed.

"I'm fine," sighed Travis in response. "Just tired, like everyone else here. I'm amazed that those soldiers haven't keeled over from exhaustion yet."

"Takes a special breed huh?" replied Cameron with a small smirk. "Maybe I could do with whatever it is they're on."

There was a brief period of silence as the two friends glanced around one another at the numerous scenes surrounding them, from a small group of refugees gathering around a burning oil drum fire that had been recently set up, sharing stories and tins of soup with one another. There were a few bursts of laughter as one of them cracked a joke, helping to keep their spirits up.

Elsewhere, a pair of soldiers stood facing one another, playing stone, paper scissors. The one on the left won for the third time in a row, leading to accusations of cheating, and another trooper standing nearby broke down in fits of laughter as his two comrades bickered. Further on, a pair of soldiers carrying sniper rifles stood at the very edge of the checkpoint, watching the road coming in, sucking on thin roll-up cigarettes.

But before they could take note of anything else, a loud commotion was heard near to the landed chopper.

"Get the hell away from him!" screamed a male voice, mixed with grief and anger.

"What the?" asked Travis turning in the direction of a small gathering just next to the chopper. That voice sounded familiar…

Cameron looked up in time to see one of the soldiers who had approached the chopper go stumbling backwards, pushed back firmly by a pair of hands directed into his sternum. Then he saw a frantic figure of a brown-haired man in the middle of the group, whirling on another soldier who was trying to get into the chopper, dragging him backwards and throwing him to the ground. Cameron felt himself tense up, seeing that ragged-looking man, covered in blood and grey dust, was rather familiar looking.

_No…it can't be…_

Another soldier planted his hand firmly on the man's shoulder and tried to pull him away from the chopper. In return, the man whirled on him and slammed a fist into his face, knocking the soldier onto his back hard.

"Get away from him!" the man replied frantically, just as two more soldiers grabbed him from behind, hooking under his arms and pushing him face first against a nearby storage crate, holding him still as a couple more men hopped into the chopper.

"Holy crap, its Dean!" said Cameron suddenly, looking back at Travis and running up towards the scuffle.

"What?" asked Travis, before he looked over and saw that his friend was telling the truth. "Oh man…" he then muttered, before rushing over himself.

"Let me go!" wailed Dean as he struggled madly, only to be pushed back against the steel crate.

"Shut up!" barked one of the troopers, blood trailing from his recently split lip.

"Hey! He's our friend! Let him go!" yelled Cameron as he and Travis came running up, only be blocked by one of the soldiers who had been pushed to the ground previously.

"Back off! Now!" he barked, as Travis came up.

"Let our friend go and maybe I won't knock you out," growled the football player, earning a withering glare in response.

"You're welcome to try," the soldier retorted, just as Lieutenant Fletcher appeared in the background.

"What the hell's going on here?" he demanded. "What's all the commotion about?"

"Sir, the firemen came back with a survivor," replied another trooper, indicating towards the restrained Dean. "And they also…"

All fell silent as the two men who had hopped into the chopper emerged once more, carefully carrying another body between them, a man who was clearly passed on, if the bloody bandages wrapped tightly around his torso were any indication. Cameron and Travis both seized up when they saw who it was.

"Oh no…" whispered Cameron, shaking his head.

"Oh God no!" half-shouted Travis, turning away from the scene as he felt the bile rise up in the back of his throat.

"No!" shouted Dean, half in despair and half in disbelief, dry sobbing as he still felt strong hands pushing him against the cold surface of the storage crate. Then, gradually, he felt the force release, and he just sank to the ground, leaning his forehead against the cold steel, before raising his arms and slamming his fists against the steel.

"FUCK!" he screamed, even as the troopers and Cameron just stood by, watching him expel his grief. "FUCK!" he repated, punching the hard surface, splitting his knuckles open. His sobs began again, this time a lot quieter, as Lieutenant Fletcher looked over towards the dead body of this man's friend, and he lowered his head sadly. Once more, another sign of the massive loss suffered by the people of Raccoon City. After a few more seconds, he stepped forward and stooped down next to Dean.

"Son…what's your name?" he asked, voice barely a whisper. The reply came after a long pause.

"Dean…" the man said, in between sobs. "Dean Travers…" The Lieutenant glanced back up at Travis and Cameron, knowing fine well this was one of their friends they had come here to find.

"OK Dean," replied Fletcher, looking over at his soldiers next. "We need to check you over for any injuries, and get your friend moved…would you please let my men help you both?"

Dean continued to stare directly ahead of him, his sobs becoming softer, before he finally replied. "Y-yeah…"

"OK," nodded Fletcher, standing back up and indicating for his men to move Ben's body away. "Come on," he then said. "Let's get you checked over."

* * *

Umbrella Executive Officer William Garland tapped away at his laptop for a few more seconds, before hitting the enter key to send off an e-mail to his colleagues currently gathered at the HQ in New York, alongside the Board of Directors, informing them of the success of their mission, and that their precious cargo was on its way to safety. Garland was a rather thin-looking man, with dirty blonde hair and green eyes, his frame clad in an immaculate blue and grey pinstripe suit, complete with black lather shoes and a gold Rolex watch, all items of his high paid position within the company, which he had worked with for the last 10 years. He had initially joined on recommendation of his cousin, and both of them started as lowly admin officers.

It didn't take long for him to discover the true extent of the company's B.O.W research, and though it disturbed him initially, he soon came to accept it as natural, as his work involved him dealing with Umbrella's black activities on a more and more frequent basis. He'd even ratted his cousin out, telling their superiors his involvement in selling information on the black market, and Garland found himself a sudden promotion and raise, at the expense of his cousin. But he never really liked him anyway.

Personally, he found the B.O.W's the company made disgusting creatures, and he absolutely hated anything that involved working alongside the monsters, no matter how small the interaction. Thankfully, this mission today involved him sitting up in the chopper safely in a strictly supervisory role, while those USF gorillas did all the hard grunt work. Speaking of which, three of them sat in a perfect row just in front of him, staring straight ahead and remaining utterly silent behind those gas masks. Apparently, one of their number had been lost in the mission, but the others showed no sign of grieving for the loss. Truly the perfect soldiers…

Garland snapped his laptop shut and placed it aside, brushing some dust off of his left jacket sleeve. He hated the fact the company had demanded that he be here today, on his wedding anniversary of all days. Hell, he knew somehow that when he got home his wife would already have changed the locks and filed for divorce. He'd lost count of how many 'late nights' he had dedicated to Umbrella over the last 10 years.

He glanced up at Sergei, his companion on this trip and Lord Spencer's most loyal enforcer. Frankly, the Russian creeped Garland out, with his almost silver hair, his cold personality, and most of all, the fact that he was currently digging into the flesh of his exposed forearms with a double-bladed knife, drawing thin beads of blood, which didn't seem to bother the Russian at all. His arms were marked with countless healed scars, almost reading like a road map.

Garland turned away quickly, peering out of the window next to him, at the scene of Raccoon City just outside the chopper, being consumed by flames and the T-Virus. An ever-present reminder of their hand in this once vibrant community's downfall.

"You think I'm unhinged, don't you," drawled Sergei all of a sudden, nearly causing Garland to jump out of his skin. The executive turned to face Sergei, who just remained in his seat, fixing him with a steely glare.

Garland just gave a slight smirk before he replied. "Well…we did just steal the UMF-013 from our own company," the executive pointed out. "Whichever way you look at it, most of the others won't see any sanity in that." Sergei said nothing; just turned away and glided the knife over his arm once more, drawing another thin line of blood, before raising it up and licking the steel clean, in a very deliberate attempt to unnerve Garland, who just turned his head away in disgust. Sergei smiled a little before he spoke up again.

"Comrade, those who go down as history's heroes are rarely stable," he spoke, looking out the window at the burning city.

"If you say so," scoffed Garland, sounding unconvinced at the Colonel's point, shaking his head.

"Umbrella will rise again from the ashes," continued Sergei, ignoring Garland. "The research data is safe comrade, that is all that matters. We can always start anew."

"And what of Raccoon's citizens?" asked the executive. "100,000 people condemned to death? What of them? What about their loss?"

"Sacrifice is an accepted part of this business, comrade," replied Sergei with a cold glare. "You know this as well as the rest of us." Garland just stared, eyes wide at the Russian, before he leaned back in his seat, holding a hand to his head.

"Then we're all going to hell once our lives are over," he muttered.

"Perhaps so, but until then I will continue to do as my Lord commands," replied Sergei harshly just as the chopper's pilot spoke up.

"We're coming up to staging point Beta Colonel."

"Good, prepare for landing," replied Sergei as he finally sheathed his knife, pulling down the sleeve of his coat to hide his scared forearm, and wiping a handkerchief across his mouth to wipe away the blood droplets that remained on his face.

The Russian peered out the window to see an anonymous country road somewhere below them, the massive Chinook transport chopper already lowering the UMF-013 carefully onto a steel transport bed with wheels. A few more USF troopers and standard Umbrella security personnel in black uniforms stood around a huge articulated truck, the rear ramp thrown down. It took another minute or so for the Blackhawk to move around and carefully set down at the side of the road, near to the parked truck. No sooner then had they touched down did Sergei open the side door and hop out onto the grass, closely followed by the USF troopers and Garland, carrying his laptop and a steel duralumin case with him, containing all of his official documents for the mission.

"Is everything going as planned?" inquired Sergei as he approached one of the USF troopers, his gas mask removed and wearing shoulder stripes identifying him as a sergeant. The man had very short light blonde hair and a grizzled face, marked with a huge scar that ran diagonally across his features.

"Yes Colonel," nodded the sergeant. "We should have a clear route to take, bypassing all of the military checkpoints. The last thing we need is someone searching our truck and finding the core."

"Of course comrade," replied Sergei, walking around the sergeant and putting a huge scarred hand on his shoulder. "It would be rather detrimental to your career within the USF if your cover were to be blown…sergeant."

"Y-yes, Colonel," stammered the sergeant, his voice sounding a little flaky, as Sergei moved away, much to his relief.

"Get that core loaded now!" barked the Russian as he waved his arm around at the other men assembled there. Immediately half of them went back to attaching a thick cable line to the lower railing of the core's transport frame, while another unlatched the cable on top of the frame, finally allowing the Chinook to leave, flying away to some point on the horizon.

A few more troopers began to work the winch inside the truck trailer, and soon enough there was a groaning of steel cable as the UMF-013 was pulled slowly up the ramp and into the trailer, where a pair of Umbrella guards clambered inside and made sure that it was securely in place via the heavy clamps mounted on the top and bottom surfaces of the trailer interior. All the while Garland watched this, while tapping away at his laptop with it held in one arm, the three USF troopers from the Blackhawk lined up behind him, awaiting their next orders patiently.

"OK, we're all set!" cried one of the troopers as he waved his hand above his head, before hopping down from the trailer and letting one of his fellows slam the trailer door shut.

"Good," said Sergei flatly, turning away and walking up towards Garland, who had just finished typing away on his lap top and folded the computer shut. "Is the report done, comrade?" Sergei asked, demandingly.

"Uh, yes," replied Garland after a few moments of silence, running a hand through his hair. "Just needs a few amendments here and there, but otherwise the main body is there."

"Good," snapped Sergei as he snatched the laptop from Garland's hands without a word and turned back to face the USF troopers, awaiting his next orders. He then glanced over towards the other Umbrella troops in the area and nodded. The USF sergeant nodded back, and then in an instant he and his men turned and calmly drew their sidearms. Some of the black-clad Umbrella troops looked up in stunned shock, before quickly going for their weapons, but it would be too slow for them.

A few seconds later, a flurry of handgun fire rang out as the USF troopers opened fire mercilessly, and the other Umbrella troops collapsed to the ground with fatal gunshot wounds, some shot through the heads. One of them managed to squeeze of a single round which grazed the USF sergeant's cheek and sent him falling to the ground, but the man was dealt with a short time later as three rounds ripped open his torso and dropped him like a sack of potatoes.

As soon as the last body hit the ground, Garland looked around in a horrified state, as the USF casually reloaded their weapons and helped their sergeant to his feet, almost as though this were just a regular training exercise for them.

"What the hell are you doing?" demanded the executive officer as he turned on Sergei angrily. The Russian didn't reply initially as he walked over towards the nearest body, of a man not much older than 21, and giving him a quick prod with his boot to check if he were still alive.

"Following my orders, comrade," he replied as he stood. "Our mission was top secret…only USF and restricted personnel could know about what we were doing here. The others were useful, but now that moment has passed."

"What?" asked Garland, hysterical. "You've lost it! You've truly lost it, you crazy bastard!" At that remark, Sergei turned on Garland. "When HQ hears about this, Spencer will march you out the door so fast that your feet won't touch the ground-"

"Spencer requested this of me!" growled Sergei, drawing his Mauser pistol and aiming it at Garland's head, making the executive shut up. "He has total trust in my abilities, and I will follow his directives to the death!"

"What? So that means-"

"Even you have a limit to what you need to know," smiled Sergei, stepping closer. "Goodbye, comrade-"

Garland reacted as fast as he could physically manage. He wasn't going to let this Russian bastard cut him down and leave him dead in a ditch at the side of the road like some common beast. He threw his right arm forward, throwing the duralumin case at Sergei's face. The Russian quickly grabbed it out of the air and twisted it away, but by then Garland was already making a desperate run for it. His career would not end here, at the hands of this scarred freak.

_Got to get out of-!_

RATATAT!

There was the sudden burst of an MP5 submachine gun ringing out, and Garland barked out a cough as his torso exploded in a spray of bright red, and he sank to his knees, already feeling the hot coppery fluid rush into his mouth and burst from his lips. He did nothing but stare straight ahead of him, his mind processing what had just happened, as one of the troopers approached him and kicked him onto his back, excruciating pain shooting through his torso. He stared up into the clear sky, feeling his thumping pulse starting to slow down, a few more masked troopers staring down at him, one of them with his helmet missing, smiling down as though he'd just bagged a nice fat deer on a hunting trip. But then they all stepped back as Sergei came into view, aiming his Mauser pistol down into Garland's face.

"Nice try, comrade," he drawled, as Garland just tried gasping for precious air, "but I always accomplish whatever Spencer assigns to me."

BANG!

Blood sprayed across the front of Sergei Vladimir's coat, but the Russian paid it no heed, holstering his pistol instead and looking towards the USF troopers. "Get those bodies moved, now."

"Yes Colonel!" barked the sergeant, even as blood continued to trickle down his wounded cheek.

As the soldiers all turned away, some of them beginning to move the bodies, one holding onto the ankles and another holding them underneath the armpits, hoisting them over to a spot just inside the treeline and dropping them out of direct sight, Sergei clicked open Garland's case and checked it over, making sure that all the necessary documents were still there.

"Perfect," he then said, snapping it shut.

* * *

Sat in a small tent erected at the side of a the main road, it wasn't doing much to drown out the sound of everything else that was going on outside. But it didn't both him either way, as he was so focused on the scene before him that everything else was simply blotted out.

_Ben…_

Dean Travers sat on a fold-out seat, just staring at the body laid out on a medical gurney before him, covered with a plain white seat, leaving just his head and bare shoulders exposed, from where the medics had done an initial examination, his soiled clothing ppiled in the far corner. He'd let them do their work, too exhausted to try and oppose them otherwise. As for himself, he was still wearing the same clothes he had on when he had escaped the city, reeking of blood, death and sweat and with grey dust in his hair, but he didn't care. None of that mattered right now.

Ben was dead, passing away right in front of him, despite his friend's insistence on holding on as long as he could manage. Feeling his grip on his hand fade away slowly and then finally give away was the last thing he had expected, and having seen so many others perish in that hell hole, including his comrades on the police force, other civilians and the survivors from the U.B.C.S; he had last expected his best friend to have been included in the overall body count. He thought they would both get through this together…but fate had other plans, it seemed.

He lowered his head and rubbed his face hard, stifling a fresh round of sobs, knowing that it wouldn't bring Ben back. He shook his head, still unable to comprehend it.

_It should have been me…I should have been the one to sacrifice myself-_

"Mr Travers?" asked a familiar voice from before, and Dean ignored him initially, head still buried in his hands. Then after what seemed like an age, he glanced up and around to see the Lieutenant from before, Fletcher, standing silently in the entrance of the tent.

"What?" asked Dean flatly.

"How are you holding up?" asked Fletcher, and then almost immediately fell silent once again, realising what a stupid question that was to ask a man who'd just seen his friend die right in front of him. Dean just turned away in response, his grim silence saying all that was needed. "Sorry…stupid question-"

"Say that again," snapped Dean angrily. Fletcher remained silent for a while longer before he spoke up again.

"Mr Travers…I can appreciate that you did all you could to save Ben, I really do," the Lieutenant explained, "but the medics say that he had at least three broken ribs and massive internal bleeding. No amount of first aid spray or bandages would have saved him Dean. It was a miracle that he managed to last as long as he did."

"It was my fault," said Dean suddenly, as though he were ignoring Fletcher's question entirely. "He sacrificed himself so I wouldn't be killed, so I would live on…it should have been different. It should have been me." Fletcher turned away, unsure what to say next, instead relying on what should have been the most obvious remark.

"Mr Travers…I have a couple of friends of yours that want to see you," explained Fletcher, as two more figures appeared in the tent entrance. "They've been here for the last couple of days…they are very loyal friends, I'd say."

"Dean?" asked a very familiar voice, and Dean turned slowly to see a pair of faces that he never expected to see in a million years.

"Travis…Cameron," he whispered, his spirit lifted somewhat, but not by much. "When did you guys get here?"

"We've been here since the 27th," replied Travis. "We were going to pay you and Ben a surprise visit, like we always do? But then we saw the news saying something bad had happened…and here we are."

"We seen a little of what's been going on in the city," added Cameron. "Jesus Dean, what the hell happened?"

"You wouldn't believe me even if I told you," replied Dean flatly, staring up at them both. Cameron and Travis glanced at one another uneasily. "Trust me…me and Ben were so close to getting out together, and now look-"

He waved his hand casually back at the body laid out on the gurney not too far from where they were all gathered, Cameron looking away so he wouldn't need to think too much about the grisly sight.

"-fate had to turn around and kick me in the balls. Why? Why Ben? Why him, of all people?"

The others turned away, saying nothing. What the hell were you meant to say to someone in a situation like this? Slowly, Dean reached into one of his jeans pockets and withdrew a once-shining brass object: his police badge. He looked down at it, rubbing his thumb across and reading his police number.

"I don't deserve this...I never did," Dean then said, tossing it across the tent, away from him. The others stared at it for a while, before Cameron spoke up, trying to ease Dean's melancholy mood.

"Dean…you heard what Fletcher said, you did all you could for Ben. You should at least be glad that you made it out of there in one piece-"

"Cameron," said Travis, giving his friend a hard glare, showing that saying anything was fruitless, considering the dark place Dean was in right now. The librarian sighed and turned away, frustrated that he couldn't do more to help his old friend.

"Mr Travers," then said Fletcher, "I know it won't mean much…but I can arrange for a transport plane to take you and your friends back home. To Riverview, right?"

"Dean, listen to him," added Travis. "We can get back home, get as far away from this shit as we possibly can-"

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Wait, what?" asked Cameron, taken aback by Dean's sudden admission.

"I can't go anywhere yet," was all that Dean said on the matter. "Its not over yet…there's still a lot of people here that need help, one way or another."

"Dean, come on, this is insane!" half-yelled Travis. "You've been through enough shit so far, so don't you think that it would be wise that we got out of here and back home as soon as possible?"

"I've made up my mind guys," replied Dean, turning around to face them, giving them that serious look which showed that he wouldn't be backing down anytime soon. "I'm sorry, but I just can't turn my back on everyone else left here."

"Jesus, helping them all won't bring Ben back!" snapped Travis in the heat of the moment, before he quickly realised what he had just said. Dean said nothing else, just turned away. Travis opened his mouth to say something else, but the words died in his throat and he just sighed in annoyance, before turning and walking outside to cool himself off.

Cameron looked back at Dean, who just looked over at Ben's body once more. Just then, he felt his cell phone vibrating in his pocket, and he pulled it out, glancing at the screen, the caller ID showing up. It was Lisa…again. He sighed lightly before pushing it towards Dean.

"Dean, at least talk to your sister, will you?" he asked quietly. "Let her know that you're in one piece?"

"Lisa?" asked Dean quietly, turning round to face the outstretched palm with the offered cell phone, his sister's name showing clearly on the screen.

"Yeah, she's been worried sick, just like everyone else," answered Cameron, as the phone vibrated once more. "Look, just talk to her for God's sake!" Dean stared for a few moments longer at the phone, before he finally reached out and took it in his hands, staring at the glowing screen for a little while longer. Eventually, he sighed and hit the key to answer the cell. He then lifted it to his ear and waited for a couple of seconds before he finally spoke.

"Hello?"

"Dean? Jesus, Dean is that you?" asked his sister's frantic voice. He seemed to be far away as he listened, knowing that it had been far too long since he had last heard her voice. "Oh my God, thank goodness I can hear your voice again!"

"Yeah, you too," he smiled, incredibly wearily.

"Dean, what happened?" she then asked, barely giving him time for thought. "We've seen it all over the news, what the hell happened to the city? It looks like its burning to the ground! Some of the news crews are saying it's a domestic terrorist attack!"

"Trust me Lisa, even you wouldn't believe me if I told you," replied Dean. "But it was hell on earth in there. Me and Ben-"

"Ben? Is Ben there with you?" she then asked, and Dean cursed himself mentally at bringing that incredibly painful point up. How did you explain something like that? "His parents have been down at the farm for the last three days, they're worried sick too."

"Lisa?" he said, extrememly quietly as he looked over at Ben once more.

"Dean, what is it?" asked Lisa. "Did something happen?" Dean stared off at some point in the distance, blocking out all other background noise around him, before he finally offered his reply.

"Lisa…I don't know how to say this," he explained, biting his lip anxiously. "But me and Ben…we were getting out of the city together and then…something bad happened and Ben-"

"Oh Dean, you don't mean-"

"-he didn't make it Lisa. He had some pretty severe internal injuries; there was nothing else I could do. God, I'm so sorry…"

There was a painful silence on the other end of the line, before she finally heard Lisa's muted voice breaking the news, or at least that's what he assumed, as he could hear Ben's name mentioned. A couple of seconds later, he heard a pained scream from what he assumed was Ben's mother, and then all he could hear were a series of pained sobs from both parents. He lowered his head and rubbed his eyes, the pain rising up in his heart once more.

_Some hero I turned out to be in the end…_

"Dean?" asked a female voice eventually, and he realised that his sister was trying to talk to him once more.

"Yeah?" he asked, whispering.

"When are you coming home, all of you?" she asked, her voice sounding very thin. "Mom wants to know…wants to make sure that you're all ok." Dean stared off into the distance for a while, before a thought came to him.

"Hold on for a sec," then asked, lowering the cell and looking over at Cameron. "Cam, would you and Travis be allright to head home by yourselves?"

"Wait, what?" asked Cameron, taken by surprise somewhat at being involved in the conversation now.

"I'm sure you can take Ben back with you both as well, right?" added Dean, glancing over at Lieutenant Fletcher, who just nodded solemnly in response. "Look, I know it isn't an ideal situation, getting us all back…but Ben's parents deserve to have their son back at least, don't they?"

Cameron looked at his friend for a while, before he finally eased up and nodded slowly, showing his agreement. "OK…they do deserve that at least. I'll go and let Travis know," he then added, making a move to exit the tent, and Dean turned back towards the cell phone.

"Lisa, the others can come back home…but I can't come back, just yet."

"What? Dean, don't talk like that-"

"I'm sorry Lisa, but I just can't! There are people here who still need helping," explained Dean.

"But your family is worried sick Dean!" retorted Lisa. "Doesn't that at least mean something to you?"

"Of course it does Lisa, but I just can't go yet," Dean replied. There was a long silence, before he suddenly heard a quiet laugh come from his sister.

"You're speaking in that tone again," she said. "That tone where you're set on doing something your own way, no matter what anyone else says. You always drove mom and dad mad with that attitude."

Dean smiled a little, remembering the countless times his stubborn nature got him into trouble so many times in the past with his parents. "Yeah, I know," he said eventually. "Tell dad I get it from him."

"I will, don't worry," she chuckled. "Come home soon, Dean."

"I will."

"Love you," she said suddenly, taking him aback for a moment.

"Ditto," he smiled, ending the call and looking over towards the Lieutenant. "Can you make the necessary arrangements Lieutenant?"

"Of course," nodded Fletcher, turning to leave. "If you'll just excuse me-"

"Of course," replied Dean, as the officer excused himself. Once they were all gone, Dean slowly rose to his feet and moved over towards Ben, lightly touching his hand to his old friend's head. "Hear that buddy?" he whispered. "You're going home. Sorry that I can't go with you just yet…I still need to do some things here. But I promise when its all done…I'm coming right back home. Our final homecoming…I just wish it could have been on better terms…"

He paused when he realised something in the back of his mind. He was back in those abandoned law offices, with Nick and the other members of the U.B.C.S Delta Platoon, swearing that they would expose Umbrella's sins to the world one way or another. He remembered them all passing around those data sticks containing all the necessary information-

His hand shot down to the rear pocket of his jeans, feeling around for something, before he inched his fingers inside and fished out what he was looking for. Except that he froze up when he saw that it was almost bent in half, probably from his struggle with the mutated Tyrant when he had landed awkwardly.

"Dammit!" he half-screamed, tossing it to the floor angrily and turning away. Looks as though he wouldn't be exposing any illicit deeds today…

But then he thought again, and looked over towards the pile of clothes that had been stripped from Ben's body, before he quickly approached and hesitated for a few seconds nex to them. Though he felt terrible for what he was about to do, he'd have to go ahead with it if it meant avenging for the deaths of the people of Raccoon. With a deep breath, he began to search through the pockets, eventually fishing out the data stick that had been given to Ben the previous day. Dean examined it carefully in the light, seeing that it was in one piece.

"Nice one man," he whispered, looking over at Den's body once more. "Still coming up with the goods, even now."

* * *

Ozwell E. Spencer sat in his New York penthouse, looking out through the double windows at the city, taking in the countless twinkling lights that marked the skyline. He was never a fan of the big city, having been born and raised on his parent's ancient country estate on the European coastline. He would have preferred to be at Raccoon City now, but that wasn't possible right now, considering.

His mind was heavy with thoughts of Lindeman's resignation, and of the wider implications. Though he knew Lindeman would not be one to just go the press and idly blab away all of the corporation's secrets, it was still an unexpected turn of events in a period of high drama. And though he had been able to quickly move the directors onto a different subject, he could see that a seed of doubt had been planted in some of them. Doubt towards his true intentions and his handling of the whole debacle.

Spencer sighed heavily as he opened his leather-bound notebook, the same one he had received as a graduation present from a relative when he had left university, and the same book he had held since then, writing in it his personal thoughts and observations on the various research projects he had witnessed. It was still in remarkable condition over 40 plus years, even if some of the older pages were getting a little dog-eared. He flipped through to the last pages, the only ones that were still blank within the whole notebook. After a few more seconds, he lifted a black ink pen and began to write, his writing very precise and elegant.

_One of our directors, a Daniel Lindeman, announced his resignation today, in the middle of board proceedings. This is highly unheard of, but as it was all through official channels, there is little I can do, even if most of the directors are terrified that he will go to the press. But __Lindeman isn't stupid: he would never do anything that would risk implicating himself in our activities. Self preservation is always a strong instinct, after all. I have witnessed it myself. _

_Elsewhere, Sergei has performed his duties admirably, as always expected of him. Not only did he succeed in implementing Operation Watchdog (at the expense of the entire U.B.C.S regiment), but his efforts in retrieving the UMF-013 from the Raccoon HQ have gone swimmingly, with only a single casualty from the USF. As of now, the core is en route to a secret location to await transport out of the country. __Just as well, otherwise Umbrella's rebirth from the flames of Raccoon would have been a much more difficult endeavour. Umbrella must succeed. Umbrella must continue to live, otherwise all will be for naught…_

Spencer paused and looked at his hand, raising it up to examine it. Many years ago, he had once been young and handsome, a long string of potential fiancés lining up behind him. But now, the disease known as age had ravaged his body, his arms gnarled and wrinkled like the branches of a dead tree, his one brown hair falling out and turned white, and his face lined with deep wrinkles like the crevasses of a great chasm. Hell, the 'disease' had even taken the use of his legs from him!

He turned his head slightly, and looked at an old photograph laid out on the side of his table. It was a sepia-toned picture of his university graduation, him as a young man standing alongside Edward Ashford and James Marcus, his old friends and the people he would go on to found Umbrella with. Everyone said that picture contained a triumvirate of the greatest young minds of their generation, ones who would go onto found one of the world's most prestigious pharmaceutical companies.

And now Spencer was the only one left. It saddened him somewhat, but at the same time he could not allow himself to dwell on the past. He had to look forward to the future, to his future…and that's why the efforts to preserve Umbrella's future was so important for him. He picked up his pen once more.

_The research must succeed. I know I may not have much time left on this planet, and our efforts must be redoubled if I am to achieve my vision…_

Spencer dropped his pen and slammed the notebook shut. Then he was pushing it aside and reached for the nearby phone, keying in a familiar number and ringing it, switching on the loudspeaker as he listened to the dial tone for several seconds, before a familiar gruff voice answered.

"My Lord?" asked Sergei Vladimir's voice.

"Sergei, what is your current position?" asked Spencer tiredly.

"I am en route to New York, my Lord," replied the Russian. "All of my assigned duties have been attended to. The UMF-013 is en route to the Caracus facility and the USF have 'cleaned up' anyone who could talk about the operation. Our actions are secure, my Lord."

"Sergei, there is another task I wish for you to take care of."

"Yes, my Lord?" asked Sergei.

"Daniel Lindeman…our New York director," explained Spencer, "has decided to leave our ranks. I don't believe that he will risk going to the press, but still he is a potential threat that needs dealing with. You do understand the implications, don't you Sergei?"

"Of course my Lord," laughed Sergei as though he were sharing a joke. "Consider it dealt with."

* * *

Dean circled around the edge of the tent, surrounded by several unused medical cots, before sitting down on the edge of one of them and rubbing his face, his eyes unbelievably heavy, on the verge of nodding off then and there, but part of him didn't want to yet, not until he heard that vital phone call from Cameron or Travis to say they had arrived safely.

They had set off a couple of hours previous, boarding that cargo plane on Travis' battered red pickup, one of its side windows knocked out for some reason, along with a pair of privates to help transport Ben's body back home. They would touch down at Richmond airport, before a small convoy of army vehicles would escort them to Riverview, about 20 minutes outside of the city. A simple journey, in theory, but Dean knew fine well that it wouldn't be a triumphant homecoming, considering the circumstances.

Since then, he had helped out anyway he could, whether it be moving people who needed medical attention, shifting boxes of gear and countless other menial duties. It would have seemed soul destroying to most people, but right now Dean was glad to have the break, his arms aching from the constant weapon usage over the last few days, a large permanent bruise starting to build up on his shoulder, and his hearing dulled somewhat, from the rocket explosions in his last battle with the Tyrant. Things were winding down now as darkness gradually descended over the checkpoint, the sounds outside becoming more subdued.

He glanced over at his R.P.D utility belt, lying discarded on a small table a few feet away, his Beretta M92F holstered in its place. He had taken it off shortly after his phone call to Lisa, and hadn't touched it since. He wished that there was never any need to use it again in his life.

He sighed again and swung his legs up and onto the cot, laying himself down for the first time in what seemed like an age. He still didn't close his eyes though, his gaze fixed permanently on the open flaps that entered, half expecting a zombie or something else to come shambling around the corner. But he reminded himself again that he was outside of the city, that those things could never touch him now.

He found his eyes beginning to flutter, and he quickly shook his head, trying to remain awake, but he felt himself beginning to doze off once again. _Just for a few minutes, _he thought to himself, as he finally felt his eyelids falter, and his world was plunged into deep peaceful darkness, the sounds of commotion and people talking outside beginning to mute out as he descended into sleep.

And then, he was right back there again.

Standing on some abandoned street in the middle of Raccoon City, surrounded by the signs of tragedy. Smashed store fronts, fires raging out on control, cars crashed into walls, street lights and other solid objects, and trash scattered all around. And the bodies, dozens of blood-stained corpses littering the tarmac. His head whipped around, breathing frantically, heartbeat thumping in his chest as he tried to comprehend what was going on.

Then he heard the slack moaning, and his heart thundered at a rapid rate.

He spun around to see the army of shambling figures that had suddenly materialized out of nowhere, dragging their rotting, broken limbs towards him, their eyes showing nothing but a relentless hunger. He turned once more, and saw even more figures lurching out from alleyways, melting out of the shadows to attack.

He felt a powerful set of hands grab onto his arm, pulling him around to face into a pair of glossed-over marbles, set into a blood-drenched skull. The figure wore the tattered and soiled uniform of an R.P.D officer, his chest ripped open messily and one of his arms hanging off by a few lone strips of flesh, but still able to grip onto Dean like a vice. The figure looked directly into Dean's soul, before his slack jaw managed to ask a single question in

"Why didn't you try to save me?" asked Ben's voice.

Dean gasped loudly and sat upright, feeling a sheen of sweat gathering on his brow. His breathing was more laboured than it had been, and he stared all around him, checking that he was still in the tent and not back in Raccoon City, about to be eaten alive by a load of zombies. He sighed in massive relief when he saw that it had just been a dream, pulling his legs close to his chest and clamping his hands around the top of his head.

Was this how he was doomed to live his life now? Surrounded by horrific memories, jumping at shadows all around him? Haunted by the ghosts of-

He paused when he saw that his utility belt was gone from where he had initially left it. Just vanished into thin air. He gazed at that exact spot, as if in a daze, before he finally spurred his lips to speak.

"What the-?"

He quickly turned when he became aware of another figure standing in the tent with him, standing in one of the far corners, half-obscured in shadow, his utility belt, with holstered Beretta, hanging limply from one of the figure's hands. The person just stood there, deathly still, as if expecting him to say something, before finally breaking the silence.

"Sorry, I can't allow you to try anything stupid," drawled an unfamiliar voice, before their other arm raised up, revealing a USP handgun with an attached silencer. "Want to make this as quick and clean as possible. It's your own fault for knowing too much…"

Dean's eyes went wide, adrenaline soaring through his system as he looked to and fro, searching for something, _anything, _to defend himself with. But there was nothing remotely useful, and the man's finger curled around the trigger of his handgun, heralding Dean's end.

BANG!

There was a gunshot and a flash of white light, and immediately Dean cried out in shock and horror, turning away and falling onto the soft ground, his mind returning back to Raccoon City once more, surrounded by groaning zombies as he unloaded his gun into their heads, spraying himself with blood and chunks of skull and brain matter.

"AH!"

Then he heard a cry of pain, and he realised that someone else must have opened fire. His unknown assailant was holding a _silenced _handgun, after all. He looked around to see the man writhing on the ground in pain, blood pumping from a gunshot wound to his left shoulder. A second later, bright lights illuminate the room, and he saw another figure standing in the doorway, a torch in one hand and a Beretta handgun in the other.

"You allright Dean?" asked Gordon Fletcher as a pair of privates inched past, hoisting the would-be assassin to his feet. He was a short, bullish-looking man with dark hair and eyes, his face etched in pain.

"Y-yeah," stammered Dean finally, when he realised Fletcher was addressing him. He took a few more moments to gather his thoughts before rising to his feet, supporting himself on the cot. Fletcher approached the wounded man slowly, putting his sidearm away as he did. The two privates held him up so they could face eye to eye.

"Sergeant Matthew Bourne," stated the Lieutenant, "you are under arrest for attempted murder and for leaking of confidential information."

"Bullshit!" spat Sergeant Bourne, now defiant. "You've got nothing on me!"

"We have three witnesses to you trying to shoot an innocent man," stated Fletcher in reply as he stooped to retrieve Bourne's silenced weapon, holding it up for all to see before tucking it into the back of his belt, "and as for the other charge…" he then finished, before searching through Bourne's pockets to pull out a disposable cell phone, almost exactly the same as the one found on Corporal Tobias Greene's body.

Fletcher opened up the list of contacts, finding only one listed. And with a light smile on his face, he turned it around to face Bourne, the lighted screen showing the initials 'D.L'. And Fletcher knew exactly who it would trace back to.

"I'm not an idiot, sergeant," replied the Lieutenant. "After what happened with Greene, I had my suspicions about the rest of the men under my command, so I had tech support monitor all incoming and outgoing calls from this sector. And guess what Bourne? We have two instances of you talking to Daniel Lindeman, the director of Umbrella Incorporated's New York division. Makes sense he would have two men watching the roads for him."

The last reveal hit Dean like a ton of bricks. Some of the soldiers sealing off the city were on Umbrella's payroll?

Bourne just laughed in a low manner. "If anyone's a fucking fool its you, Gordon." His use of the officer's first name was dripping with disdain. "Six years I've acted as Mr Lindeman's errand boy, and you've never suspected a thing! And Greene was a low life anyway! God knows why he was 'hired' while I acted as the Plan B!"

Fletcher glared hard at Bourne, before he walked calmly forward and planted his left hand on the man's wounded shoulder, carefully positioning it so that his thumbnail dug into the man's recent bullet wound, causing him visible discomfort.

"Well then Bourne…if you're so talkative now, you wouldn't mind telling the MP's back at the garrison what you've just told me, wouldn't you?" said Fletcher in a dark manner, before stepping back and removing his thumb, causing Bourne to gasp in shock as he was released from agony, Fletcher motioning for the privates to take him away. "Get him out of my sight."

"Bastards!" growled Bourne as he was dragged away. "You should at least treat my wound! I have rights too!" he yelled as he was pulled out of view, leaving Fletcher alone with Dean, who had just stood by silently and watched events unfold as an invisible witness.

Fletcher sighed and stooped down to retrieve Dean's utility belt, moving to pass it back to him. "I think this is yours," he said, but as Dean shook his head furiously, he moved it away instead and set it back down on a small table.

"Hell of a day," whispered Dean to himself, looking over at the open tent flaps, half expecting Bourne to reappear once more. "But what the hell was that about? Leaking info to one of Umbrella's top directors? Those bastards have a hand in everything about this mess."

"It's a long story, Mr Travers," replied Fletcher. "And your friends had a lot to say about that as well. Come to my tent, and we can talk about it some more then. You know which one I mean?"

"The one with the two armed guards outside?" asked Dean with a wry smile, and Fletcher nodded, moving to leave, before Dean had a sudden thought and dove his hand into his jeans pocket, pulling out the same data stick he had taken from Ben.

"What's that?" asked Fletcher.

"Everything that Umbrella didn't want the public to see," explained Dean, before pressing it into Fletcher's palm. "You'll see." The officer looked at the stick for a while, even as Dean rose to his feet slowly and moved towards the exit.

"Go on, I'll come and catch up," stated Fletcher, as he looked at the cell phone he had taken from Bourne, staring intently at the two initials on screen, intent on letting Umbrella know exactly what was happening at this checkpoint. He dialled the number, but went straight to the answering machine.

* * *

Daniel Lindeman stood on the balcony of his penthouse, staring out across the sight of New York City at night, taking in the numerous twinkling lights he could see. A half-filled glass of brandy was clutched in his right hand, his tie removed and his top button on his shirt undone, pondering his future and today's events.

He had done it. He had walked out on the company he had dedicated most of his life too, one that had given him a comfortable life and given him little to worry about, but after sitting through all those meetings in the last few days he was sick. Sick to his stomach at what he had turned a blind eye to, the sheer loss of human life delivered by the company's B.O.W experiments.

And Raccoon City had been the final straw, alongside Spencer's sheer disregard for their deaths. Almost as though he had a different agenda in mind than the rest of them.

But it didn't matter now. He was going to leave this life behind, use his golden pension to live out comfortably for the rest of his days, far far away from Umbrella and anything else associated with it. He took another sip of the brandy, and then placed the glass down, entering the pent house again, surrounded by piles of documents and other evidence of his work with Umbrella, knowing he had a lot of work to be done before the night was out.

He paused when he looked at the disposable cell phone on the side table, its screen lit up. Curiously, he crossed over and lifted it up, seeing that a voicemail had been left for him from Bourne, his other contact on the outskirts of Raccoon, the same man who had served him for the last six years, keeping him informed of any military activities that might jeopardize his position with Umbrella. He raised the phone to his ear.

"You have one new message," stated a cold female voice, and he pressed the button to listen to the message.

"First new message…" stated the voice, before another, familiar, male voice was heard.

"Mr Lindeman? This is Lieutenant Gordon Fletcher of Raccoon County Garrison. I'm sure you won't reply to this message, but I just want you to know one thing. Its over: we found your second damned contact, somehow I had an idea that you would have more than one person on your payroll. But you really think your man could just shoot one of the refugees in our care and get away with it? You must think we're all idiots."

Lindeman breathed in deeply, the implications of the Lieutenant's words sinking in.

"But its over now, Lindeman. Bourne's spilled his guts already, and once he says the same at our home base, you and all you other bastards at Umbrella will have to answer to a court of law, even if I have to personally drag you all there myself. Do I make myself clear? 100,000 people have lost their entire lives here, and you bastards are going to pay for it, one way or another!"

And with that, the call was ended. Lindeman calmly lowered the phone, staring off at some point into the distance. The voice mail proved it: the Raccoon outbreak would likely ruin Umbrella and land them all in jail. Lindeman was right to get out when he did.

He tossed the phone across the room angrily, and then sat himself down in the huge leather chair behind him, rubbing his face tiredly, before looking over towards the stack of papers next to him. He had a lot to do.

**A/N: And so Dean finally escapes from his former home, but on a very bittersweet note. (ducks to avoid the objects thrown by readers who hate me for killing off a main character)**

**But this story is gradually coming to its end. Can you feel it? I can, and I'll be happy to get this fanfic finally completed sometime this decade. :p Not that I hate it or anything, it'd just be good to finish something I've dedicated a lot of my writing time to and move onto new projects. ****There are probably going to be two more chapters in this story, the second of which will be the final epilogue, and hopefully they will be a lot shorter than the previous chapters, as most of the action has wound down now, and it will just be more drama and dialogue based, something I wish to improve on with my future work. **

**A few other things though: the surname of Umbrella's Moscow Director, Lazaravic, is taken from Zoran Lazaravic, the villain of the excellent Uncharted 2: Among Thieves, a rather brilliant game I picked up and completed recently, along with the original Uncharted: both great games I highly recommend if you haven't played them yet. **

**Also, I'm glad to get this up today as I am away for the next week and won't have any internet access as a result, so it will be good to enjoy the time away. But anyway, until next time, R+R as always please.**


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28: Ground Zero

**September 30****th**** 0456 hours**

Former Umbrella director Daniel Lindeman paused briefly to examine the front of the manila folder he held in his hands, before tossing it casually onto the fire before him, the roaring blaze already stoked by several other folders dropped into the flames, all of them official documents that could lead back to him and link him with Umbrella's clandestine operations.

Even though he had officially left the corporation, he still couldn't take any risks, and as such had cleared out both his safe and his records files, though his money in the safe he had kept of course. No point in riding into the sunset if he didn't have anything to finance his new life, after all.

He knew his second contact, Matthew Bourne, had been rooted out, if that voicemail was anything to go by. And that meant it was only a matter of time before the Raccoon military forces were done with the quarantine and refugee operation, and would be going through the official channels to punish anyone responsible for what had happened to the fair city. And that meant that he couldn't exactly waste anymore time sitting around this penthouse suite waiting for fate to catch up with him. His car was packed and ready, and within another half hour he would gone.

It was...he considered; the end of an era. The end of one chapter in his life story and the beginning of another chapter. The reflection of the flames danced in his eyes, and as he watched his life work go up in smoke, his mind pondered the actions that had bought him here.

His first day of work with the corporation. His first experience with the B.O.W creatures, the first time he had swept a 'mess' under the carpet to save his skin and everyone else's, the day he lost his soul-

His actions recently could have been considered him regaining a flicker of the decent man he had once been, as ridiculous as that sounded, but it was the only explanation he could come up with. After all the deaths he had witnessed as a result of Umbrella's experiments and he had barely batted an eyelid, and only now he was showing some sort of backbone against his employers. Maybe it was because he was tired, sick of it all. He was getting on now, and didn't have much time left in this life. That retirement of his was long overdue-

"Mr Lindeman?"

Lindeman turned towards the doorway to see the tall figure standing there, a man in his early thirties wearing black pants, white shirt with the collar undone and a black suit jacket. His green eyes shone dimly in the light from the fire, and his face was passive as he took a breath to begin speaking.

"Sir, the car is loaded up, and we're ready to move when you are," stated Roger Boykin, Lindeman's personal aide for the last 10 years. Lindeman had first seen him at some Umbrella party conference, when the man was working as a bodyguard for some other executive officer who was only a couple of weeks away from death. Seeing the potential in Roger's work manner, he had made him an offer he couldn't refuse, and the rest was history.

Roger had acted as the director's bodyguard, aide, butler, and countless other roles in the last 10 years. He was loyal to the extreme, much more so than the other men that Lindeman hired as his personal security, men that were easily susceptible to corruption and betrayal. Roger had been the one constant in Lindeman's staff over 10 years. He had literally been there until the end.

"Good, good," sighed Lindeman, rubbing his tired face. "Have the others secure the garage and wait for my arrival. I shan't be much longer."

"As you wish," replied Roger, turning to leave.

"Roger," called Lindeman suddenly.

"Yes sir?" asked Roger, pausing and turning in the doorway, even as Lindeman retrieved a plain white envelope and passed it to the bodyguard, who just regarded it quietly for a few seconds. "What's this, sir?"

"Think of it as a little...'thank you', for all your services throughout the last 10 years," answered Lindeman. Roger curiously opened the envelope and peered inside, before withdrawing a cheque, its corner marked with the Umbrella logo. His eyes widened as he regarded the amount written on the cheque, several zero's reading like the wheels on a juggernaut.

"Sir, I can't take this!" exclaimed Roger, genuinely surprised.

"Please Roger; you've always done as I've asked, so just do as I say one last time please. Take that money, leave this corporation when I am gone, and enjoy the rest of your life. You still have a lot of years ahead of you."

"But-"

"Thank you Roger," interrupted Lindeman, with a slight smile among his beard. "Thank you for everything."

Roger looked at his employer for a long time in silence, his green eyes heavy with mixed emotions. This was the man who had given him a means of living for so long, after all, and here he was setting him free. After devoting his entire life to serving this man's every whim, he was being set loose. What was he meant to do now? But then he realised that it was the same thing that Lindeman himself was going through, and he finally nodded, slipping the cheque into the envelope and pocketing it.

"I'll go make sure the garage is being secured, sir," he said finally, before turning on his heel and leaving, his footsteps echoing along the empty passage outside. Lindeman watched him go, and then smiled once more, stifling a chuckle as he shut the door, turning away again.

_Roger...you always were one of a kind...

* * *

_There was a light 'ping' as the elevator doors opened and Roger stepped out into the quiet parking lot, only a few solitary vehicles, including Daniel Lindeman's pitch black limousine and security sedan, currently being watched by a number of security guards, dressed in charcoal grey suits, white shirts, and with ear pieces trailing from behind their left ears. There were six of them in total, and though they didn't look it, each of them was armed with a silenced Steyr TMP machine pistol, concealed beneath their jackets. Roger immediately approached Matose, a tall African American with a shaven head.

"Is the garage secure?" he asked blankly.

"Of course," replied Matose, sounding a little bothered. "No-one's been seen round here since yesterday afternoon. We're the only ones here."

"Good, let's keep it that way, shall we?" suggested Roger as he walked up to the limo to check it over one last time, taking particular care to make sure that there weren't any explosive devices planted underneath the vehicle. One couldn't be too careful, especially since his boss had walked out on the corporation he had worked with for years, one that didn't really have a good track record regarding loyalty bonuses.

Roger had just finished closing the trunk when he heard a soft sound from somewhere near the front entrance of the garage, what sounded like something metallic being knocked over. He immediately snapped towards the direction of the sound, as did half of the guards around him.

"What was that?" asked one of them, his echoing voice remaining unanswered. That sound didn't come again, and Roger found himself reaching for his concealed weapon and then bringing it out, in preparation for anything that could happen. He half expected a USF kill team to suddenly drop out of the shadows and attack, but they were the only ones there, just as Matose had suggested.

He turned to Matose, who only mirrored his concern, before turning to Sullivan, one of the younger guards there, and indicated for him to check it out.

"Uh...me, sir?" asked the young man, only to receive a withering glare in response, before he quickly nodded in confirmation and jogged away towards the front entrance of the parking lot, his TMP already drawn and readied. The others silently watched him as he reached the end of the lot, looked left and right, and then moved off to the right, out of sight, his weapon raised, the scuffing of his shoes on the tarmac surface providing a modicum of reassurance.

"Sullivan, report," whispered Matose as he pressed his finger to his ear piece.

"There's been a disturbance here, definitely," crackled Sullivan's voice in response, directly into their ears. "Some things have been knocked over here. But you never know guys, it could have just been a stray cat or-"

The way Sullivan's voice cut off suddenly was enough to give them all cause for worry, as was the sound of something hard hitting concrete from where the man had disappeared to. All of the guards withdrew their TMP's now, ready for absolutely anything at all now. Roger looked around at them, noting the look of fear on some of their faces, even as Matose tried desperately to raise Sullivan on the radio again.

"Sullivan! Sullivan! Answer me damn it!"

"He's not going to pick up," said Roger flatly, even as a large figure came into view at the far side of the garage, seemingly melting out of the shadows to face them.

Even from where they were stood they could tell that the figure was huge, over seven feet tall, and clad from neck to toe in an arctic white trench coat, which stood out in stark contrast to the relatively darkened conditions of the garage. Even the figures boots and gloves were of a similar shade, the exposed skin on its head a bland grey colour, its eyes shielded behind a bright yellow visor which extended up and around the back of its head.

Roger knew fine well what it was. He had seen it, and its identical twin, a few times in the last week, following the every move of Sergei Vladimir, Ozwell Spencer's most loyal enforcer.

"Shit! Open fire!" he barked, squeezing down the trigger on his TMP, the others following suit without word, just as the giant broke into a sprint, shoulder lowered as it thumped forwards in a classic football player pose.

The 9mm rounds from several TMP's ripped into it, but doing nothing to slow down its implacable advance, even as some of the bullets planted into its exposed skull, the wounds quickly 'sealing' themselves back up. Once it was within 15 yards of the line of black-suited gunmen, it suddenly lowered its shoulder further and darted forward with inhuman speed, one of its bowling ball-like fists crashing into the centre of Matose's chest. The big man let out a brief shout of pain as his sternum shattered like glass, and he went flying backwards, his weapon scattering away across the ground, arms and legs flailing freely like a broken doll.

"Holy fuck!" screamed the man standing beside Matose as the security leader's blood sprayed across his face. The others scattered like terrified sheep, even as the white-clad brute turned its visor-covered face towards them.

Roger swore freely as he slammed his only reserve magazine he had into the TMP and opened fire once again, this time at almost point-blank range into the giant's neck, as it turned and swung one of its massive arms, sending another broken body flying through the air with a minimum of ease. The dead body flopped against a concrete support pillar, falling like a discarded puppet.

The air became thick with the subdued burps of the silenced weapons firing, and the shouts and cries of men as they began to drop like flies. Here, one man received a solid punch to the face and his head snapped back, far enough to break his neck, while another received a powerful backhander that sent him sprawling to the concrete, a few teeth missing and blood trailing from his mouth. Despite this giant's sheer bulk, it moved almost like quicksilver, a sheer white blur that tossed bodies around like nothing.

Roger exhausted his final TMP bullets just as another body crashed into him, and they both tumbled to the ground, the air knocked from his lungs. He frantically tried to free himself, knowing fine well that he couldn't protect Mr Lindeman if he was trapped underneath a corpse. He groaned as he tried to push the man away from him.

Then there was a crunching of steel and the shattering of glass as the brute bought its fists down on the middle of Mr Lindeman's limo, crumpling the vehicle like a soda can and causing the car's windows to explode in a shower of glass shards that showered its coat and the ground, thought its face remained passive as it did so. There was no chance of Mr Lindeman using that vehicle now. Then just as quickly as it had wrecked the car; it turned back on the last living member of the security force, who just stood in place, unloading the remainder of his TMP ammo on the giant, intending to go down in a blaze of glory.

Roger roared in exertion as he finally pushed the body off of him, hot blood already seeping through his shirt. He then made a grab for his handgun, also holstered within his coat, and pulled it out, just as a massive boot came down on his hand, pinning it to the tarmac and breaking every bone in his fingers.

He screamed in agony, throwing his head back and trying to pull his arm free, but he had no chance in hell, as he looked up into the still-passive face of the grey-skinned giant, staring down at him, its fists coated in fresh blood and the front of its coat dotted with bullet holes. Roger gritted his teeth and stifled another scream of agony, as he knew the end was near. He had failed his employer at his greatest time of need, and that cheque in his pocket showing an impossible amount of money suddenly felt worthless now.

The last thing Roger Boykin ever saw in his life was the giant's massive boot coming down towards him.

* * *

Lindeman looked down at the open briefcase before him, loaded to the brim with hundred dollar bills. There must at least have been two hundred thousand dollars there, the exact contents of his personal safe, which hung open on its hinges now, bone bare. Though Lindeman was unlike some of his colleagues who only cared about how much money they earned throughout their work careers, he still needed at least something to start his new life with, as abandoning Umbrella would mean abandoning all of his company accounts as well.

He sighed as he snapped the briefcase shut, pausing suddenly when he got that feeling of being watched. He slowly reached his hand down towards the antique Colt Single Action Army revolver on the small beside table beside him, taking hold of it and spinning around, aiming it at the doorway-

-only to see that he was alone, the doorway as open as he had left it. Exhaling slowly, he tucked the revolver away into one of his inside coat pockets. Despite his apparent paranoia, he knew that he had to remain on constant alert, due to the company's policies regarding those who walked out suddenly. Knowing that he couldn't afford to waste anymore time, he picked the case up and briskly walked through the open doorway, closing the door behind him and taking a quick glance around the penthouse.

It would be sad to say goodbye to his home after all these years, but sacrifices had to be made if he were to start his life anew. Making sure that he had not left anything behind, he cast a quick glance over towards the fire, a large pile of ash having gathered. Satisfied, he quickly moved towards the main exit. He was only a few yards away when he heard the voice suddenly- that cold, almost detached voice that sent shivers down his spine.

"Going somewhere, comrade?"

The former director spun round as quick as he dared, in time to see the towering figure of Sergei Vladimir standing just inside the entrance to the penthouse's kitchen, leaning against the wall next to him, arms folded before him, his face as though it were made of granite. He just stared at Lindeman with his one remaining eye.

_How the hell did he get in here without making any noise? _Lindeman thought to himself, though he retained his cool demeanour.

"What concern is it of yours?" he asked.

"Lord Spencer was concerned, that is all," answered Sergei almost immediately, leaning off of the wall and walking forwards a short distance. "You are leaving us at a time of great drama."

"Spencer shows concern for no-one," shot Lindeman back. "If he did he wouldn't abandon Raccoon City to a fiery fate!"

"Lord Spencer does what is necessary for the entire company, indeed for the world," Sergei retorted, his face showing traces of a cold smile. "You of all people should know that, Mr Lindeman."

Lindeman just scoffed loudly, lowering his head and shaking it, before looking straight up at the Russian again. "No, Lord Spencer only cares for himself. I know fine well why you are here. He's worried that I may go to the press, spill my guts, implicate them all in the outbreak, hm? Don't flatter yourself, Colonel," the former director retorted, putting a little bit of scorn into the last word. "Do you really think I'd be that stupid to implicate myself in such a horrific incident?"

"Either way, I do as my Lord commands," replied Sergei bluntly, unsheathing his double-bladed knife from a hidden holster in his coat, twirling it once around his finger before pointing it towards Lindeman. The ex-director just chuckled in response before drawing his revolver from his inside coat pocket, aiming it towards the Russian, who didn't even flinch.

"Sorry Sergei, but you know what they say about bringing a knife to a gunfight," stated Lindeman with a coy tone. "You may have gotten past my security, but I will walk out of this penthouse untouched," he then added, already moving towards the door.

Sergei just looked down at the ground, examining his knife, before speaking up again, sounding bored.

"Hold him," he spoke.

Lindeman suddenly became aware of someone standing directly next to him, and he turned immediately, only to be confronted by a figure that could have been a brick wall, dressed in pure white from head to toe, and the former director looked up to see a bright blue visor staring down at him.

_Damn it-_

He swung his revolver to bear and pulled down the trigger, only for a massive fist to casually swat the weapon out of his hand, the gun's discharge bouncing off of the walls of the penthouse suite as it smacked against the closed glass balcony doors and fell to the floor with a dull 'thud'. Another second later, Lindeman felt thick, cold fingers wrap around his throat, immediately cutting off his oxygen supply, and he let the briefcase containing his funds fall to the carpet. He started to gag as he felt himself lifted off the floor by a few inches, his feet dangling freely.

"You see," said Sergei as he walked forward slowly to stand beside where one of his 'Ivan's' was choking the former director, "I didn't go around your security. My guards, or at least one of my guards, went _through _them. It was much faster to go through then around, after all."

He then offered a curt nod of the head and the Ivan casually threw Lindeman backwards, sending the old man onto one of the green couches in the living room, the sheer force making it slide backwards several feet and crash against the wall. The former director coughed a few times, clutching at his throat as he felt his airway clear once again.

"You...you killed them?" he asked finally, in shock. Sergei moved around and sat himself in one of the other chairs in the sitting area, folding one leg over his knee, as the towering brute just stood beside him, still as a statue, awaiting its next command. Lindeman knew that Sergei had two of the creatures following him around most of the time, so where was the other?

"Only because they got in the way, and in my life I learn to deal with obstructions," stated Sergei bluntly as he twirled his knife around his finger once again, before rising to his feet, before stooping down and retrieving the briefcase containing the contents of Lindeman's safe from off the carpet.

"You cold bastard," spat Lindeman as he eased himself into a practically upright position, just as he heard deep thudding footsteps from outside, and then the door crashed open, as the second Ivan finally made its appearance, the front of its coat dotted with bullet holes and smeared with fresh blood. Lindeman was amazed that the brute entered the penthouse without smashing its head off the top of the doorframe or breaking anything else. It moved to stand beside its twin, utterly silent despite its lumbering frame.

"Mercy is what makes us weak, comrade," laughed Sergei as he snapped the briefcase open, examining the contents for a few moments and snapping it shut again. "Compassion is our enemy...that is what my superior drilled into me during my time with the Soviets. And I must thank you for your generous donation. This will help our cause significantly."

"You're a bloody fool if you think you can continue as normal after this debacle!" half-yelled Lindeman, anger creeping into his voice as he continued to speak, rising fully to his feet now. "Spencer has committed over 100,000 people to their deaths and you sit there as though it's an everyday occurrence?"

"Sacrifices must be made, comrade." The bluntness of Sergei's response sent another wave of rage through the former director's body.

"Sacrifices? You don't know the meaning of the word, you Neanderthal! You're nothing but a guard dog Sergei, running after the master's stick like an obedient little hound, never once questioning why!" He quickly grabbed a small lamp off of the table next to him, readying it to be thrown. "Spencer will destroy you, just like he has Raccoon City!"

A split-second later, the lamp flew across the room, heading straight for Sergei's head. Another moment later, the massive form of the first Ivan effortlessly stepped in front of the object's trajectory, and it simply bounced off of the creature like it had struck a brick wall. It had barely touched the floor when Sergei came into view from behind his bodyguard, his knife clenched harshly in his fist.

His other hand shot out like a whip and grabbed the front of Lindeman's shirt, throwing the old man onto the couch once more, before he rammed his knee into Lindeman's stomach, causing a sudden exhale of air from his lungs, holding the blade of his knife against Lindeman's windpipe. For the first time during this encounter, Sergei's faced showed some sort of discernable emotion- anger.

"When Soviet Russia fell, I lost my home, I lost my purpose! I lost _everything!_" the Russian growled in a threatening voice. "I dedicated my life to protecting Mother Russia, even sacrificed part of myself, and what did I get for it? Nothing!"

The burly Russian finally released his hold on Lindeman, stepping back and twirling his knife a few more times, before returning it to its sheath, Lindeman gasping for air once more.

"No," muttered Sergei. "Spencer would never destroy me. He gave me a life, gave me a purpose again. I owe more than my life's worth to Lord Spencer's generosity."

"Spencer cares for no-one," gasped Lindeman. "He only sees tools that can serve his ends...until they become useless, and then they get thrown away. Even you...'comrade', will become useless one day."

"Unlikely," replied Sergei as he retrieved a hypodermic needle containing a clear fluid from one of his coat pockets. "Hold him," he then ordered, as the two Ivans immediately began to stomp forwards.

"What are you doing?" demanded Lindeman, his frantic eyes scanning back and forth between the two hulking brutes as they drew in on the fragile, elderly man, who stumbled over a footrest, falling onto his back as the first brute towered over him. The former director barely had enough time to try and get to his feet when he felt powerful hands grab onto his arm and yank him up, both Ivans holding him in place as Sergei came closer. Lindeman struggled madly, but it was a futile effort to say the least.

"This...'comrade'," said Sergei, emulating Lindeman's mocking tone from before, "is my reason for being here. This is an animal tranquiliser that works particularly well on humans too. Once a few hours have passed, it will have disappeared from your body, and the police will not suspect foul play at all." Lindeman drew back as Sergei came closer, preparing to slide the needle into the old man's neck.

"Spencer will destroy you all," seethed Lindeman, through gritted teeth, staring right into Sergei's remaining eye. "You mark my words."

"Good night," was all Sergei said in response as he jabbed the needle into the soft flesh of Lindeman's neck, who gasped briefly in pain, before he issued a soft sigh and his head lulled forward, into a deep knock-out state. Sergei removed the needle and checked for any drops of blood that might have beaded to the surface, before he tucked the needle away, satisfied. He then indicated towards the closed balcony doors and grunted.

The Ivans understood him somehow, and began to carefully cross towards the doors, ferrying the limp body of Lindeman with them. Though he looked dead, the former director was still alive, just under very heavy sedation. If left alone, he would wake up within a few hours as though nothing had happened. But Daniel Lindeman's luck had run out.

One of the hulking brutes slung the director over its shoulder while its twin worked on opening the balcony doors, before stepping aside as its 'brother' stepped through, walking to the edge of the balcony, the city streets 20 stories below, and simply tossing Lindeman over the edge as though it were just discarding a garbage bag.

The giant turned away from the edge and walked casually back inside, just as they all heard the sound of something heavy landing on a parked car 200 feet below, warping the roof and shattering all the windows through the sheer impact. And with that, Daniel Lindeman's tenure in this world had come to an end.

Sergei smiled to himself as he heard the sounds from far below, his work for his Lord accomplished once more. He looked over at his Ivans, standing still as statues just inside the balcony doors. "Leave," he then said, and the two Tyrant's left the room, edging past their master and out into the corridor. A few seconds later, three men in full white body gloves, gas masks and wearing gloves entered, looking around as two of them set down some heavy-looking cases.

"You know the drill," Sergei stated as he looked between them. "A clean sweep, make it look as though Mr Lindeman and his staff were the only ones here. I'm sure you all know what is at stake if you fail?"

"Yes Colonel," nodded the first man, his voice muffled by his mask, even as his companions began to unpack numerous forensic tools and cleaning agents from their cases, intending to clear away any evidence of wrongdoing. "Cleanup Unit B is dealing with the scene in the parking garage."

"Good, good," replied Sergei. "You have 10 minutes, any longer and we may risk being discovered."

"As you wish, Colonel," nodded the man in reply as they all set about to their work. Sergei exited the room and began to traverse the corridor, bringing out his cell phone and dialling for Lord Spencer's personal number, being greeted with the answer phone.

"Lord Spencer, consider your work done," the Russian spoke as he approached the opened elevator doors ahead of him. "I am returning to base now." With that, he slipped the phone away just as the doors opened, revealing his bodyguards waiting for him inside. He took up a position in front of them as the doors closed. Once more, his mission was a total success.

But some years down the line, Lindeman's words would ring true to the brutish Russian.

* * *

**October 1****st****, 0532 hours**

It had been raining recently.

The grass was still damp from the recent downpour that had lasted from the last few hours of the night, and the smell of damp wafted through the checkpoint. The activity had died down a lot now, many of the soldiers and refugees from the city standing around burning oil drum fires, warming themselves up and sharing muted conversations between one another. The military choppers were well and truly grounded now, though the civilian chopper piloted by the two firemen was still in use. Dean had seen it take off not too long ago in fact, heading into the danger zone once more. He owed those two men everything for getting him and Ben's body out of there.

He sat on a lone rock at the side of the road, just staring off into the horizon. Even from this distance, he could see the pillars of black smoke from the fires ravaging Raccoon City...his home. Or rather, what remained of it, as the zombie hordes and other B.O.W's ravaged what remained of the human population. A week ago, he would never have believed that creatures like that could ever have existed- except in his worst nightmares and in movies.

He shifted his position and looked down at his clothes: his old blood-splattered ones long discarded by the military. Now he was dressed in a plain grey t-shirt, black jeans, and brown work boots that were at least two sizes too big for him, but he didn't complain about that. The soldiers were hard-pressed enough with all of the other crap going on. His face and bare skin had been wiped clean too with cold water, though he still yearned for a long, hot shower.

He looked down at his hands, free of blood, dirt and other grime, though he could still see the small nicks and grazes from his recent battle for survival. He could also still feel the aching pains, from his almost-constant use of a shotgun, as well as any other heavy ordinance he had acquired during his fight to freedom. The heavy weight of the M66 rocket launcher was still all too clear in his mind, as he hefted it up to destroy that screaming beast known as a Tyrant. He remembered during his days in the academy, his sergeant would often tell his class that there were times when a police officer would have to rely on his gun, and his gun only, to save him from certain situations.

Only now could Dean appreciate those words. In Raccoon City, his Beretta and other wapons had been his only lifeline.

But although his physical scars would heal...what about the mental scars?

After all, he had witnessed people he had known for two years, people he considered good friends, being pulled down and torn apart by the relentless zombie masses at the barricade on Raccoon Street, seen creatures born from the worst nightmares of a deranged pharmaceutical company, survived the very worst that humanity could create-

-and seen Ben die right before his very eyes, even after holding on for so long, through three broken ribs, massive internal bleeding and excruciating pain. It was a miracle that he had lived for so long, even as Dean recalled the moment the Tyrant's massive fist collided with his gut, hearing the audible snap of his bones breaking as blood gushed from his open mouth. Some may have considered Dean a hero for making it out of that death trap, but Ben Campbell was the true hero this day; the man who had held on through unbearable agony to see the sun, the sky, the trees; for one last time before he went to the other side, held on long enough to compel his old friend to forget the past and go home.

Ben was the hero today. And where did that leave Dean?

_I'm just a worthless coward..._

"Hey there buddy," called a familiar voice. "This seat taken?"

Dean looked up almost dumbly, to see the tall man with grey-green eyes standing a few feet away, indicating towards the rock next to Dean's current perch. He then realised that it was Lenny Bristol, one more of the lucky survivors of the Raccoon Police Department. He too was dressed in new clothes, mainly brown pants with a white vest, wearing an unbuttoned green shirt over it as well. He looked as exhausted as Dean did.

"No, help yourself," Dean said finally, looking off into the distance again, as Lenny sat himself down and brushed his legs down, before looking off towards the pillars of smoke on the horizon too. Who knew what horrors the veteran officer had been subjected to in his own battle for survival? There was a long, almost painful silence, before Lenny spoke up again.

"I heard about what happened to Ben," he said flatly, no emotion at all. "Dean...I'm sorry man. I don't know what to say."

Dean said nothing, he just continued to stare into the distance, even though Lenny's words had triggered a new surge of painful images into his brain, mainly seeing Ben lying on the ground in a crumpled heap, blood spewing from his mouth and broken body. Lenny took the chance to speak again.

"I lost my partner too...Jeff," he explained. "It was at the barricade. He ran out of ammo and those freaks just tackled him to the ground, tearing him apart like they were sharing out taffy...Jesus, he was still screaming even as they ripped him in half!"

Dean remained utterly silent as he let that information sink in. Though he hadn't seen that gruesome scene himself, he had heard Lenny's scream of utter horror as he and Ben prepared to make a run for it, and his mind didn't have time to even ponder what could have prompted such a reaction in the first place, and now that he knew, it was completely understandable.

"Ben..." he said suddenly, prompting Lenny to turn to face him. "Ben died because he put himself in the line of fire to save my worthless life," he continued, the disgust in his voice audible. "Everyone saw Ben as one of the most likeable guys in the precinct, someone they could always rely on. And he died to save me- the outsider, the miserable bastard that no-one ever liked!" Lenny was silent for a while as Dean lowered his head, holding his hands up.

"Dean, you know fine well what Ben was like," Lenny said finally in measured tones. "He was a good officer, but he was a man who'd put his friends above anything else, right?" he then added, waiting for a small nod from Dean to show his agreement.

"Then I'm sure he died with no regrets for what he did. And to me, then that's the best way to leave this world, without any regrets," the veteran officer continued, looking straight at Dean now, willing the younger man to make eye contact, which he did eventually. "I know it's hard Dean, but we all have to make an effort to move on after this."

"How though?" asked Dean quietly. "Everyone here's lost their entire lives, sometimes their friends and families," he stated, using a sweeping gesture of his arm to indicate the countless bodies they could see moving to and fro, some of them speaking amongst one another, including the small group that Lenny had been extracted from the city with. "How do you move on from that?"

"I don't know," replied Lenny honestly, turning away and looking off into the distance again. "But I do know that mankind has a knack of coming back from the worst disasters imaginable. Earthquakes, Tsunamis, floods: even after all that destruction they find a way to move on. So that means we all need to find a way to move on as well."

Dean let the words sink in for a while, before looking back over towards the refugees, the remaining survivors of what used to be Raccoon City, and he could see the smiles on some of their faces, as they laughed and joked between one another, as they shared rations and hot soup between one another, consoling one another and speaking with the soldiers assigned to protect them. Dean found himself smiling slightly himself, knowing that Lenny had a point.

"Yeah...I guess if Ben was here he'd be saying the same thing," he said, looking over at Lenny who just smiled himself slightly. "But what about your family? Any word yet?"

Lenny's face darkened again suddenly, lowering his gaze as he was reminded of his own personal loss. "No...nothing yet. But I know they're alive, I can feel it in my gut. Lieutenant Fletcher said he would send word around to the other refugee checkpoints, and I trust him that he'll get a result."

They both looked over towards where they saw the officer in question standing around speaking with a few of the refugees, a somewhat more kind expression on his face. After a while, he gave one of them a hearty pat on the shoulder and then moved off elsewhere.

"He's a good man," said Dean, remembering how the officer had acted when Dean had first reached the checkpoint in the first place. "Comes across a little stern and uptight, but a good man."

"Yes," agreed Lenny with a nod. "They made a good choice putting him in charge of things here," he added, as Dean rose to his feet and stretched his arms above his head.

"So when they find your family, you got anywhere else you can go?"

Lenny was quiet for a few more moments before he replied. "Well we could go back to Connecticut and stay with Anna's parents for a while, just until we get back on our feet. I'm sure they would be willing to help us out, after everything that's happened."

"Good," nodded Dean, turning away to look to the south.

"What about you?" asked Lenny, turning his head slightly. "Can't you go back to your home in Virginia...what was is called...Riverview?" There was a brief pause, and then an annoyed sigh from Dean as he lowered his gaze.

"...Ben told me to just go home, forget about the past and start my life again," explained Dean quietly, "but even now I'm still putting it off. I stayed here to help these people, while my family are sat at home right now worried sick about me. How goddamn selfish of me"-

"I'm sure they'd understand that"-

"Would they?" retorted Dean, turning on Lenny suddenly. "I walked out on my home, my obligations five years ago, and even now I'm still holding off my going back there!" He turned away again, clearly his head swimming with conflicting emotions. "Dammit, I'm such a bloody fool!"

"Hey, don't talk like that!" retorted Lenny, rising to his feet himself. "Whatever's happened in the past, they won't care about any of that now! You should get yourself home as soon as you can and show your family that you're still in one piece! You're still your parents child in the end, after all..."

"I guess you're right," sighed Dean, lowering his head. "I really should go back home now rather than"-

"Hey, what's that?"

Dean turned at Lenny's statement in time to see something come cresting over the horizon, moving at incredible speed. To his eyes it resembled an impossibly bright speck of light, almost like the sun or a shooting star, but he then saw the trail of white smoke that came in its wake, and he knew then and there that it wasn't something as innocent. Soon enough, the sounds around the checkpoint died down as everyone else noticed the object. Then Dean caught a brief glance of Lieutenant Fletcher's face, standing within the crowd, and saw nothing but grim resignation.

"Oh God..." muttered Lenny, and suddenly he was sprinting away from the side of the road, heading towards a ridge on the opposite side, which gave a good overview of the burning city, the same area that many more of the other refugees were heading towards, eager to get a glimpse of this mystery object as it sailed over their heads and disappeared into the distance. A few seconds later, Dean was on Lenny's heels, not willing to miss anything that was bound to happen in the immediate future.

He pushed past a few milling troops and quickly scaled the ridge, adrenaline spurring his motions on once more, and soon enough he had reached the top of the grass-topped slope, standing beside Lenny and amongst several other refugees as they watched the bright object continue on its course- directly towards Raccoon City.

"Oh no," whispered Lenny as they saw the bright object beginning to descend down into the very centre of the city, a massive trail of smoke marking its passage behind it, a great trail that even outsized the massive black pillars emanating from the city itself. It disappeared down into the very centre of the burning city, trailing smoke all the way.

Then there was a sudden flash of impossibly bright light, prompting them all to turn away and raise their arms to shield their eyes from the intense light flare. And then the ground was rumbling, as though it were an earthquake, but Dean knew it were something other than that.

And then he finally lowered his arm, and saw a sight far more horrific than all the creatures he had seen wandering the streets of Raccoon City. He saw the massive mushroom cloud that threatened to blot out the entire horizon, saw the great waves of flame that had engulfed where the streets and landmarks of Raccoon City once stood, saw the air rippling as a great shock wave came hurtling towards them at the speed of sound-

-and came crashing against the crowd of people, knocking many of them onto their backs, Dean included.

Several shouts of annoyance went up, and then they were quickly replaced by cries of horror and despair. Dean forced himself into a seated position, just staring at the immense mushroom cloud framed on the horizon, reminding him strongly of an image he had seen in a history textbook detailing the atomic bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima. Back then he had felt sickened by the implications of what had been inflicted on those poor people- and he felt sickened now. How many more people were still left in the city, holed up in barricaded rooms or homes, waiting for the rescue to come, only to be incinerated by the immense wall of flame that had scoured the entire area? He also though of any other rescue attempts that had been going on at the same time, if Charlie and Barry had been killed in that blast too, their efforts ultimatly futile. And finally, he also though of the ones behind this entire mess in the first place- Umbrella.

_They'd go this far to cover their tracks? They'd use a nuclear weapon on American soil?_

He began to rise to his feet, even as people jostled all around him, some of them nearly knocking him from his feet, a maelstrom of voices all around him, shouts, screams and much more, even as he heard the voice of a news reporter behind him beginning to say a piece to the camera.

All Dean could do was stare at that massive cloud in the distance.

* * *

"_This is Daniel Cho from Channel 6 Action News. I am currently standing on the outskirts of what used to be Raccoon City, where just moments ago it appears that some kind of nuclear weapon has detonated in the very centre of the city, and as a result the small town has been completely wiped off the map. Unconfirmed reports state that this action is the result of a 'bacillus termination' operation sanctioned by President Baxter himself, though as of current the White House has declined to comment, though this event does come not long after the supposed suicide of Umbrella Incorporates New York Director-"_

Ozwell Spencer turned his attention away from the news report and back to his study desk, knowing full well that all of the news channels now would likely be showing the same story. He knew long before one of his aides had entered his study barely half an hour ago and whispered those fateful words into his ear.

'_My Lord, Raccoon City has been destroyed.'_

He knew what was coming, even as he had first left Raccoon City on the morning on September 26th. That's why he had been so forthright throughout the meetings with the other directors. No matter how much they carped on, no matter how many alternative methods were suggested, he knew total decontamination was the only way to deal with this outbreak. Even if the thought of using nuclear weapons on American soil would make most people sick to their stomachs. The very weapons intended to protect the people, now being used on the people themselves. How ironic...

Spencer had known it would come to this for months, ever since the first reports of the outbreak at the Arklay Research facilities had filtered back to him, back in May. He always knew an outbreak in those isolated places would eventually spread to the city: there was just so much wildlife in those forests that could act as a vector for the virus. Though he hadn't expected it to happen so soon, it had happened all the same. Many years past, a few of the adventurous researchers had openly questioned Spencer's reasons for founding a facility there, but he never gave an answer.

But as a result, a lot of plans had been bought forward: the deployment of the U.B.C.S and the supervisors, of which only one of them had been confirmed to survive, and was in the process of negotiating his bonus, though Spencer knew that they could easily meet any amount he requested. Also, the extraction of the UMF-013 had been bought forward too, to the extent where it had taken place at the height of the outbreak, deploying a small USF team directly into the city, but as ever Sergei had performed his duties admirably...and the subsequent clean-up of those who knew too much.

And that left only the future. Raccoon City was a tragedy indeed, but those losses were acceptable compared to the larger picture that was at stake. With the UMF-013 intact, the company could easily pick up their T-Virus research where they had left off, and indeed any other research they were in the midst of when the outbreak struck. No...what mattered the most was the Progenitor, the virus where everything had started from. The old man coughed a few times, taking a deep breath before he reached for the remote and flicked the TV set off, and then reaching for his notebook once again, turning towards the few blank pages that remained. He paused at the first page before him, taking a few moments to gather his thoughts, before setting the pen down and beginning to write.

_I just received word that Raccoon City has been wiped out. The Americans finally took action against us. I hope the irony of using the very military machine that was supposed to protect them from foreign attackers to kill their own people is not lost on them. While the threat posed by the spread of the T-Virus was very real, I don't think Americans will easily forgive their government for the deaths of over 100,000 of their people._

_If the truth of the matter is ever brought to light, support for the current administration will plummet. I don't think he wants that._

_Even a child will see that they will come after Umbrella with everything they have. To hide their own foolish mistakes, they will blame Umbrella for Raccoon City's annihilation. It will seem Umbrella will share Raccoon's fate, but perhaps it will be to a lesser degree._

_But either way it doesn't matter: Umbrella was nothing but a tool for the research of the Progenitor Virus. Even without that tool, the research still survives. Only Umbrella's lowly employees will be hurt by its dissolution. As long as the research survives, then we can always rebuild anew. I've already made preparations for such a plan._

_The research facility in Africa remains a secret, and it is there that the Progenitor Virus is produced, something that we only achieved in the 80's, and as such it is the only source of that particular virus. Only a handful of people in the company are even aware of the facility's existence thanks to our strict regulation of information flow. Only a minimum amount of personnel were ever transferred from Africa to other locations, and they were always closely monitored._

_Director Bailey has been confined to the African facility for almost 30 years, and even that has all been for this day. All that remains is to close that facility and everything will go according to my plan._

Spencer paused for a moment to remember Director Brandon Bailey, an eager student of one James Marcus when the CEO had first met him. So loyal and attentive...Spencer knew that Bailey would go far, and he had been proven right when the young man was promoted to chief researcher of the African facility when Marcus and the others returned to Raccoon City. He had attended to his duties of researching and producing the Progenitor virus admirably, even through the death of his one-time mentor. And now Director Bailey's use had been fulfilled. Spencer began to write once more.

_Once that facility is gone, all its connections to Umbrella will disappear with it. Then I will have to deal with anyone who has a Level 10 security clearance as they are the only ones who know of the African facility's existence. Everyone else will be summarily disposed of. My secrets will be protected. When one buries a treasure, one should not leave behind a map._

He finished his writing just as he heard a sharp rap at the door, and he quickly snapped the book shut, sliding it away from him, before then dropping it into an open drawer on his desk and pushing it shut. "Yes?" he then called, as the door creaked open and Reynard, the head of his security, appeared.

"Lord Spencer, Sergei is here to see you."

"Send him in," replied Spencer bluntly and turned away, reaching for the decanter of port, taking it and an empty glass in his hands, pouring some of the liquid out, its distinctive aroma prickling at his nostrils as he did. Even with his advanced age, he could still identify his favourite beverage by smell alone. He took a sip and savoured the fine range of tastes just as the door opened fully, and heavy footfalls entered, coming to a stop a few feet away from Spencer's position. Spencer eventually turned to see the figure of Sergei standing before him, his face as cold and impassive as always, hands behind his back.

"Ah Sergei, I trust the day finds you well?" asked the CEO.

"As well as can be, Lord Spencer," drawled Sergei, staring straight ahead.

"As ever Sergei, you have accomplished all that I have asked of you," replied Spencer, taking another swig of his Port before setting it down on the table. "Even though others may balk at what is demanded of them, you always see your task through to the end. Even if that task means silencing a former Director. I trust his landing wasn't a soft one?"

"Lord Spencer, you gave me a new life and purpose after the fall of the Union," stated Sergei, ignoring Spencer's joke at the late Lindeman's expense, continuing to stare at the far wall as he spoke, "I will always be grateful for that."

"Of course," laughed Spencer, before suddenly descending into a fit of wracking coughs, thick phlegm gathering at the back of his throat. He took a few moments to retrieve a handerkerchief and cough a few more times, spitting out the bright green and yellow viscous fluid, before taking a few moments to compose himself.

"But there is one more task I request of you, Sergei."

"Yes, my Lord?" asked the towering Russian after a brief pause.

"After this debacle has been resolved, I will need to retreat from public view for some time," explained Spencer, wheeling himself around to a place near to the fireplace. "Even after all our careful movements, there is still a chance the public will demand for our heads...for my head, and I will need to remain hidden if such a storm is to come. That is why Sergei...in such a case, I would like you to act as Acting Executive Officer in my stead."

Sergei blinked in surprise, though his face remained as unreadable as ever. "My Lord?" he then asked, his voice wavering just slightly.

"Why not?" asked Spencer flatly. "Who else can I trust to carry out my vision to the exact letter? Someone I can trust over anyone else? Sergei, you are the _only _one I trust implicitly in this world of ours, and that is why it must by _you _that undertakes this request." The words seemed to convince the enforcer fully, and the scarred Russian offered a curt nod.

"As you wish, my Lord."

"Sergei, all I ask of you is to ensure that the UMF-013 is secure enough in our Caracus facility...and that the T.A.L.O.S project is secure as well," ordered Spencer, as he began to wheel himself back towards his desk once more. "That project must succeed if our B.O.W programme is to continue to grow and expand. Aside from that, everything else is in your capable hands. I trust you not to fail me in this, Sergei."

"Of course, my Lord. I will do as you request of me...as always."

"I know you will Sergei. That is all, you are dismissed."

"Yes, my Lord," answered Sergei, offering a bow of reverence, before he turned and left as quietly as he could, even if his huge boots did thud against the carpeted floor.

Once he was alone again, Spencer turned once more for his glass, peering in and tutting, before reaching for the decanter to refill his glass. As he poured himself another measure of his favourite drink, he glanced over towards the double doors as they swung shut fully, leaving him alone once more.

_Sergei...you always see your duties through to the bitter end. But just like the rest of Umbrella, you are a tool for the greater good, and once your use has been fully expended, then you will be discarded._

He reached for the remote next to him and flicked the television set on again, being greeted with yet another news report of Raccoon's destruction, the sight of a dissipating mushroom cloud framed in the early morning sky. And then he glanced down at his painfully bony fingers, being reminded once more of his reasons for all of this, for all of this death and destruction. He sighed deeply.

* * *

Dean had lost track of Lenny in the scrum. Heck, he had lost track of everything, as bodies moved to and fro all around him. Every now and then he would glance to the North, to see if it was all just a bad dream, but each time he still saw that huge cloud on the horizon, starting to dissipate somewhat in the wind, though it still retained its general shape. Down at the road, most of the crowd had gathered at the barricade, being held back by at least four armed soldiers who looked in danger of being overrun, but somehow stood their ground. The despairing cries of numerous persons could be heard, over everything else.

"Let me through! My home is back there!"

"My family!"

"Let us through, you callous bastards!"

He backed away, head swimming as someone else bumped into him from behind, nearly knocking him over, and he realised it was another trooper, moving forward to aid his comrades at the barricade, and it looked as though they needed. Elsewhere to his left he could hear yet another reporter saying a piece to the camera.

"-and just over that horizon is a massive mushroom cloud, seemingly from a nuclear weapon, emanating from where Raccoon City once stood, until just minutes ago."

Somehow, above all of this noise, he heard the sound of a chopper coming in to land, and he looked up and over to the north east, in time to see the familiar sight of a blue and white civilian chopper coming into land, and he felt his heart lifted somewhat.

_Thank God someone they both it out allright!_

As the small aircraft came over the crowd and began to set down, Dean quickly hurried over to its landing spot, following behind a pair of troopers who weren't otherwise preoccupied with trying to stem the tide at the barricade. It had barely been touched down for a few seconds when the voice from the chopper's lone passenger was suddenly heard.

"Hey! Take it easy guys, I'll live. This isn't my blood, y-know."

Dean stiffened up when he heard that incredibly familiar voice, one that he hadn't heard for a few days at least; down in the oppressive darkness of those damn subway tunnels. He rushed forward, pushing through the soldiers to see the man with the semi-long brown hair sat on the edge of the chopper's fuselage, leaning heavily on one knee.

"Kevin?" called Dean. "Oh thank God you made it out in one piece!"

Though from the looks of it Kevin was lucky to have made it at all. His black clothing and his Kevlar body armour had seen better days, the cloth tattered and frayed in numerous places, the once prominent letters reading 'R.P.D' half-obscured by blood and what looked suspiciously like claw marks criss-crossing his chest. His face was smeared with soot and dried blood too, much like Dean had looked when he got out of that damned place.

"Dean? Jesus, good to see someone else from the R.P.D made it out of here," sighed Kevin, half in relief and half in surprise. "We all thought you were done for when that damn flea pulled you out the window!"

"Yeah, me too," nodded Dean, "but I'm not that easy to kill," he then added, remembering that fateful moment back in the subway carriage. Then his face changed and he looked around behind Kevin. "Hold on a second...where are the others?"

Kevin's face changed to a look of partial guilt, and he lowered his head before replying. "David...I don't know what happened to him, we got separated after we got out of the subway tunnels and we were jumped by a pack of zombies dogs. And Alyssa...she stayed behind."

"What?"

"She was infected with the virus!" said Kevin pleadingly. "I didn't want to leave her, but she said we had no other choice! She know what she could be like, right? But she promised that she'd make those bastards at Umbrella pay for what they had done, and she'd make sure the world knew what they had done exactly."

"What do you mean?" asked Dean quietly.

"We came from the University," explained Kevin, head still lowered. "They had a secret research lab underneath the main building...some nut job had created this huge monster and set it loose on us. Still don't know how we managed to finish it off before it killed us both...anyway, Alyssa found this laptop with all this data on about Umbrella's bio-weapon tests, and she sent that data to every major news site in the country. Hopefully they received it by now..."

"Yeah, hope so," muttered Dean, feeling somewhat lifted by the thought that someone else aside from himself had managed to bring some proof of Umbrella's sins to the world. And she was a reporter after all, she it likely wouldn't have been too hard for her to accomplish such a thing. Her death, and all those others, wouldn't be in vain after all.

"But hey, don't worry about me, I'm fine!" half-shouted Kevin in a mocking tone, standing up, somewhat shakily, spreading his arms on either side of him, offering a crooked grin, his white teeth at odds with the general state of his clothes and face.

"I know you're fine, don't worry," replied Dean with his own grin, "just got a lot on my mind at the moment. I was with Ben right up till the end..."

"What happened?" asked Kevin curiously, though the way Dean's shoulders sagged told him everything he needed to know.

"Ben died so I could survive."

Kevin lowered his head, shaking it a few times and holding a hand across the back of his head, letting that bombshell sink in for a few more seconds before he finally spoke up. "Shit! Another good man wasted in that Necropolis!" He then turned away suddenly and landed a punch into the side of the chopper, as Charlie and Barry dismounted, giving him wary looks. "Those bastards need taking down!"

"I agree with you there, buddy," muttered Dean, looking back over towards the seething crowd at the barricade, at the soldiers trying to hold them back, at the massive cloud on the horizon: the ultimate price that Raccoon City paid as a result of Umbrella's crimes. Kevin was right about one thing- those bastards needed taking down, the world needed to see that they weren't as benevolent as their public slogan, 'Preserving the health of the people', suggested.

"And I'm sure that its only a matter of time until they get what's coming to them," he then added, as he watched a couple walk past, the woman in near hysterics.

And that was bound to come sooner or later. With Alyssa's efforts, and the data that Dean managed to safely extract from the city, it was only a matter of time until they were taken down, as Kevin had suggested. But for the moment, Dean was exhausted, both physically and mentally, by the trials of his escape from Raccoon, and from the all too recent death of his oldest friend, Ben Campbell. Though he hated to leave these people in their greatest moment of needed, he had to get away from all of this.

It was time for him to go home, exactly as Lenny had suggested.

**A/N: OK, as I said in my last update, these final two chapters would be somewhat shorter than what I've put out before, as the bulk of the action has been and passed now, and the events of the Raccoon City outbreak is winding down in the wake of its destruction.**

**Couple of things first: I wanted the 'Ivan's', Sergei's Tyrant bodyguards, to make at least one more appearance in this story, mainly because I think they're pretty cool, plus the fact that they haven't been seen in a combat situation yet, and its implied that they are somewhat more intelligent than regular T-103's (the one that destroys Lindeman's limo shows this, to stop the former director and his men from getting away). Also, the part where Spencer writes in his journal is a file directly lifted from Resi Evil 5, and as such, contains minor suggestions of his ultimate plan. Suffice to say, it's somewhat sinister stuff.**

**The next chapter (and the final one): the epilogue, so this saga is finally drawing to a close. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and R&R as normal please. **


	29. Epilogue

Epilogue: Welcome Home

**October 2****nd**** 1204 hours**

The journey home had been fairly uneventful.

The military had been kind enough to arrange transport for him to the nearest airport, and then had been able to get him a flight straight to Richmond for free, and then from there he would be able to get a taxi straight to his home, which was also kind of them, as otherwise Riverview was 20 miles outside of Virginia's capital, and he didn't fancy hitchhiking that far either.

He had slept across the entire plane flight, so exhausted was he from fatigue, but reminders of what had happened could be seen everywhere he went, plastered across newspaper headlines and on every news channels on television; images of that damn mushroom cloud framed on the horizon, and the flames ravaging the city. Over 100,000 were dead, and some serious questions were being asked, both of the Umbrella Corporation and the government itself. The public outcry was unprecedented as well: scores of angry protesters had picketed outside of the White House to show their displeasure.

And on the Umbrella side, more casualties were to be had. At least half of the Board of Directors had resigned in the days after the destruction of the city, and at least one other member had committed suicide, throwing himself from the balcony of his penthouse suite in New York, supposedly. Yet the corporation was still operating, though Dean wondered for how much longer. How much longer could they pull the wool over the eyes of the great American public? The though filled him with anger, but he only cared about one thing now: going home.

Right now the taxi was travelling through the picturesque countryside of Virginia, little to see save for the odd farm vehicle, and the fields of crops ripe for harvesting. In some places he could see the farmers going about their duties, entirely oblivious to events in the mid-west. There was also the crackle of the radio, as the cab driver, an African-American in his mid-thirties, switched channels constantly. Dean perked up when he caught a glimpse of a news report on one channel.

"_And this news exclusive just in, President Rudolph Baxter has announced his resignation"-_

"Hey buddy, turn that up will you?" he asked, tapping against the dividing window between the passenger compartment and the driver's compartment.

"As you wish boss," replied the driver with a dry chuckle, twisting one of the dials to increase the volume, loud enough for them both to hear it clearly, the female reporter continuing her piece.

"_Just moments ago, the President of the United States has announced his resignation after serving just one term in office, with__ recent opinion polls suggesting his popularity has plummeted in the wake of the 'baccilus terminus' operation that occurred at the isolated mid-western town of Raccoon City, home of the Umbrella Corporation. However, in his resignation speech the president gave no outright explanation of his reasons for resigning, and refused to answer any questions of the press. His successor is yet to be announced..."_

"Hell, can't blame him for steeping down after he authorized that shit, eh?" stated the driver loudly, looking back at Dean with a pearly smile showing a few black gaps in his teeth. "You see those pictures on the TV? Damn, that was one hell of an explosion."

"Could say that again," said Dean flatly as he looked straight at the rear-view mirror. "I used to live in Raccoon City. I _saw _that explosion close up." There was an awkward silence as the driver's smile faded, and he turned the radio off fully, focusing back on the road before him. Dean decided not to pursue the matter further as he looked out the side window over the fields, his ears starting to become filled with hollow moans and pained screams, murky memories swimming around his head like annoying flies.

_Stop it..._

Little was said for the rest of their journey, though Dean did begin to show signs of perking up when they passed by a huge wooden building that could easily have been storage warehouse, looming suddenly out of the trees at the side of the road. But Dean knew fine well that it was the old saw mill, long out of commission for years now, but still a well-known haunt for the young children in his home town: hell, he and the others had even frequented it right up to their final years of college. He could recall that night when Travis had managed to lift a six-pack of beer from his father's garage the morning previous, and the rest of the night was devoted to their first experience with alcohol- that ended with them having to half-drag, half-carry Cameron home. He'd been a lightweight ever since.

He smirked at the memory even as they rounded a corner and continued on through the road cut through the centre of the forest, until they passed by a tiny sign at the side of the road, the paint peeling away, but Dean could still clearly read the writing, printed in bright red lettering.

_Riverview. Pop: 3__53_

"At last..." he whispered, even as the forest suddenly gave way to a long avenue of single-storied homes, interspersed with various stores that he still remembered, from 'Bob's Fishin' Shack' to 'Eleanor's Essentials', through to many more. He also saw the dull concrete of the Sheriff's Station, a pair of black and white police cruisers parked up outside.

_Wonder if Sheriff Harper's still alive and ticking?_

"So where's your place then boss?" asked the driver as he approached a crossroads ahead, slowing down as the lights changed to red. It was a while before Dean replied, too busy was he in looking around at a place he hadn't seen in so long, and yet hadn't changed at all. Most of the houses and other buildings were barely changed from when he had first been growing up, running along the sidewalks, playing with his little sister.

"It's on the other side of town," he explained. "Just keep driving straight, and you'll see the white fence posts where the road turns off down a dirt track."

"You got it boss," replied the driver, as the lights changed to green once more, and he headed off again, as his passenger continued staring round at everything he could see, at people walking the sidewalks, sitting on benches, chatting between themselves. These were people he once considered close as family, such was the nature of the tiny settlement, but had left behind a long time ago.

"You know what's funny?" asked Dean suddenly, directing the question at no-one in particular. "It's been just over five years since I last set foot in this town, and it's hardly changed a bit."

"Yeah, going home can be a funny thing," agreed the driver, not taking his eyes off the road. "Especially after coming back after a long time away...it makes you appreciate the small things in life more."

"Appreciate the small things...yeah," whispered Dean as they passed by the three-storied Riverview Medical Clinic, probably the only building that had changed since five years ago. Not only did it have a fresh coat of paint, but its facilities looked a lot more modern now, as did the lone ambulance parked out front. And past that was another modern-looking building, Riverview High School, where he had first met Ben and the others, and where the supposed 'golden era' of their lives had begun. Even now he could see the kids coming out for their lunch break now, gathering around on the stone steps directly outside the front doors in groups. Looking again, he could almost see himself and the others sat there, talking and laughing about the most ridiculous things imaginable.

_Just a shame that we can never have those moments again...not with Ben gone..._

And almost as though fate had a sick sense of humour, the car then passed by a lone house with countless bundles of flowers and other tributes lying out the front, a few passer-bys standing by to examine the scene closer, and Dean realised that it was the Campbell residence. His heart sank once more, and he felt the surge of powerful emotions come back to him. How could he ever face Ben's parents again?

And then it was gone again, the road surrounded by forest once more, at this time of year a constant mirage of orange, copper and brown shades as the leaves shrivelled and fell from their branches. He knew that they were getting close to their ultimate destination, the old Travers farm, and he could feel the apprehension building up in his gut. How would they react upon seeing him for the first time in five years? That was the main question, and his mind returned to it again and again, throughout his whole trip here.

"Here we are boss. Sorry I can't take you any further," came the driver's voice suddenly, and it was only then that he realised that they had come to a complete stop, and he looked to his right to see a dirt path over-shadowed by trees growing on each side, marked with white fencing, exactly as he had described it. A small mailbox on a wooden post was also present, the word 'Travers' written across the side in white paint.

"That's fine, I can manage from here," he sighed, throwing open the door and stepping out, dried leaves crunching under his feet, and he also grabbed the dark duffel bag that had been laying on the seat next to him. He threw the door shut afterwards and approached the open driver window. "Thanks for the lift buddy."

"Don't worry about it boss, anything to help a brother in need," grinned the man, offering his hand to shake. Dean looked at it cautiously for a few seconds, before he took it and gave a hearty shake, knowing it was worth at least showing his appreciation. After that gesture, the man smiled again, rolled up his window, and then promptly gunned the engine, spinning the car through 180 degrees and heading back the way they had come, back on the long road towards Richmond. Dean watched him go for a while, and then he turned to appreciate the natural beauty around him.

Trees with auburn and orange coloured leaves littered the empty landscape, which would normally be overrun with acres of pure green fields in the spring and summer, but now autumn was beginning to take hold on nature's landscape, giving the whole area a general look of decay. He was reminded somewhat of Raccoon City, and of the decay that overtook that former home of his, even if that decay was unnatural in its state and origin.

He sighed and stooped to pick up the bag next to his feet, which contained a few changes of clothes and some other essentials, provided to him by the military before he had left, just while he got back on his feet. He was clad in the same jeans he'd had on for the last couple days, along with the same shirt and boots that were a bit too big for him, but as long as they were on him to provide some defence from the cold. He shivered as he remembered that he didn't have some kind of coat to add to his current outfit. Turning to face down the pathway, he began to traipse his way along the dirt road, his feet crunching under the fallen leaves and twigs littering the dirt.

Thoughts were swimming this way and that through his mind. It had been so long since he'd last been here, his first home, the place where he grew up for most of his life, before he abandoned that to cross the country and seek his fortune elsewhere, effectively abandoning the simple life of living on a farm, because he felt as though he wouldn't be able to sustain a proper living here, that he was meant for greater things.

He also remembered the row he had with his parents the night he left. They accused him of running away from his responsibilities. The Travers family had owned that farm for 3 generations, and Dean was supposed to be the fourth, but in leaving home he had left the future of the farm's ownership in jeopardy: if both his parents happened to die off the whole estate would go into ownership of the State, and neither of them wanted that. But he hadn't cared about that stuff all those years ago: he was too young and selfish to consider it, and was only looking out for himself when he moved out. He assumed that they'd be able to manage without him, and told him as much during their numerous conversations via phone and mail, but every time he was in contact with them he could sense a tinge of resentment. Looking back, he couldn't blame them really.

So would the farm still be running at full capacity? Or had it fallen on hard times? Would things have been different if he'd been there and never left? Or would that all be inconsequential as to the estate's ultimate fate?

_Too many questions, _he told himself. _Just focus on what you can see and know. They'll be happy to see their son didn't get blown to smithereens in that damn nuclear blast._

A few minutes later, and the path opened out into a large clearing, the central hub of the Travers Estate. To his right was a wooden hut that operated as the garage, and it was currently occupied by a pair of vehicles, one a rusty pick-up truck with traces of red paint on it, one he remembered as the same truck his father had owned and driven for at least 10 years before he left, and it looked like it was still up and running (a small miracle in itself, as Dean was sure it was a nightmare to get parts for that vehicle). The other vehicle was a modern-looking sedan, a rich blue in colour and it looked fairly new.

_Blue…that was always Lisa's favourite colour.__ That's probably her car…_

His little sister Lisa…but chances were she wasn't so little now. She was 6 years his junior, so that would mean she would be 20 years old now, no longer the little girl who always used to chase after him when he went into town on some errand or another. He still vividly remembered the last time he'd seen here before he'd left: she was on the verge of tears, as she'd been going through some tough times during her time at college and he'd always been there to help her through. But if he left she'd be alone again, and she said she feared she would be unable to cope if he left.

But he told her that she had to keep strong, not for him but for herself, otherwise the rest of her life would have been an uphill struggle; that she had to look after their parents now. She had seemed content with his answer, and saw him off in good stead. Chances were she'd be the one most pleased to see him return home, but of course after what had gone down in Raccoon he'd wager they'd all be happy to see him initially. The resentment would just follow later, he reckoned.

His gaze crossed the yard and settled on the old barn opposite the garage, the red paint beginning to peel and fade away in places, but otherwise it was almost exactly the same as the last time he saw it, much like the rest of the town. Next to that was the immense grain silo, a great steel construction that towered over everything else in the yard. When he was a young boy, he always used to gaze up in wonder at the silo, and ask his father if he was ever going to be tall enough to reach the top. And every time, the response was 'One day son, one day.' He smiled a little at that happy memory.

Finally, he turned to look at the house itself, the large, two-story house that he was born and raised in. Its wood-panelled walls were painted white; and it was beginning to peel away in places, much like the barn, but otherwise it was still in good condition. The bright blue window blinds were drawn on the upstairs windows, the ones downstairs left open, though he discerned no movement inside. The old porch out front lay before the closed screen door, with an old hanging seat to the right of the door. Next to the house was the apple tree, almost as tall as the house itself now, the same tree he used to climb a lot when he was a child, but he always did that alone. His sister was always too afraid to climb after him, due to her vertigo.

"Dean, stop it! You're scaring me!" she would always plead, as he climbed past the 12 foot mark.

"Oh, I'll be fine!" he'd shout back, climbing another branch. "I bet I can touch the sky when I reach the top!"

"Never did reach that far," Dean said to himself solemnly. "Not since that time I fell and broke my arm." He rubbed at his right forearm as the memory of that accident came back to him. Apparently he was howling like a banshee when his dad found him, though he had always denied it for years afterwards, even to his closest friends.

The thoughts had only just begun to fade away when the sound of a door being opened reached his ears, and he flashed his gaze towards the front door. The screen door had been opened, and a young woman who could easily pass for his female equivalent, with green eyes and long dark brown hair, stepped outside, a basket filled with wet washing tucked under one arm. She was dressed casually in grey jeans marked with a few smears of dirt, along with white sneakers, and a blue vest top underneath a chequered shirt. She didn't notice him at first, not until she'd stepped off of the porch steps and looked up. She just stood there at first, staring at him in disbelief, almost as though she were trying to figure out if she was seeing things or not. Dean started to slowly grin to himself.

"You know, when you see someone you haven't seen in a long time, it's normally polite to say 'hello'," he joked with a wide smile. Soon she returned the smile that crossed her freckle-marked cheeks, dropping the full basket where she stood and running towards him. He barely managed to drop his bag and open his arms in time as she practically threw herself into him, holding onto him as though he was going to leave again and she wanted to keep him there in any way possible.

"Whoa, easy there tiger!" laughed Dean, as he regained his balance.

"You have no idea how glad I am to see you," she replied, sounding as though she were on the verge of tears. He held a hand protectively to the back of her head for a few seconds, letting her get her emotions out.

"Hey, hey, don't cry," he said, holding her away so he could see her face, slightly stained by tears. He carefully wiped away a trickling teardrop with his thumb. "I'm glad to see you too, kiddo." She just smiled at him again, and then pulled him into another meaningful hug that lingered for several more seconds before they finally pulled away from one another.

"When we heard about what had happened in Raccoon City, we feared the worst. Thank God you're still alive!" she continued, her voice still a little shaky.

"I feared for myself as well Lisa," Dean said blankly, lowering his head. "It was like hell on earth." There was a brief silence, until he spoke up again to try and shift the conversation onto a happier material.

"But look at you!" he said, moving a stray strand of hair out from her teary eyes. "You've certainly grown since last I saw you."

"People can change a lot in five years," she replied, and he retreated a little, unsure on how to react, whether it was an honest proclamation or a little dig at his departure. But she continued on as though nothing had happened. "But it's all thanks to you, big brother. You told me that I had to strong for mom and dad, right?"

"Yeah, I guess so," he said in a somewhat unsteady fashion, forcing a smile. "So where are you know? I'm guessing you start university soon?"

"That's right," she nodded with a smile. "Working for my medicine degree, it's been hard work, but I'm enjoying it. I'll be starting a placement at the medical clinic in a couple of week's time. Can't wait!"

"Oh that's brilliant news!" he smiled. "You've done great Lisa, just as you knew you always would." Lisa had been determined to become a doctor for years, after their grandfather had passed away from lung cancer. That would have a profound effect upon any 13 year old, but the look in her eye when she stated that she would become a doctor, no matter what, would convince any sceptic of her resolve.

"Are mom and dad in?" he then asked, moving the conversation along. He knew he would have to see both his parents sooner or later, so better to ask about them then giving the wrong impression.

"Mom's in, dealing with the housework, and dad went out with Curtis to check out the apple collection at the Orchard," replied Lisa.

"Curtis?" asked Dean with a laugh, remembering his father's longest-serving farmhand. "Is that old crusty goat still here?"

"He wouldn't appreciate you calling him that," laughed Lisa as she prodded her big brother's arm. "And yes, he's still here. He's practically part of the furniture, right?"

"Varnished too," chuckled Dean, remembering that Curtis had worked on the Travers farm for as long as either sibling could remember.

"Lisa!" shouted an older female voice from inside the house, a very familiar voice that made Dean perk up and turn in the direction of the front door. "Have you seen that damned dog anywhere?"

"Mom! We got a visitor!" shouted Lisa back excitedly, stepping away from her brother to allow him some more room to breathe. A few seconds later, they heard someone coming down a wood-floored hallway, and then the front door creaked open and a small figure ambled out.

"A visitor? Come now girl, you know how well that mutt is at going for a walk outside the fences"-

The woman before him was in her early fifties, her once brown short hair starting to grey in several places, though her blue eyes still held their gleam. She was wearing old and filthy jeans, marked with different colours of stains, along with a white vest top and a green and red plaid shirt over that, complete with brown work boots, stained with fresh mud, classic farmer's clothes from helping her husband out on the farm on many occasions.

"Dean...?" asked Marie Travers as she descended the porch steps.

"Hi mom," smiled Dean, moving forward, and then a few seconds later both of them had embraced, this time in a somewhat softer fashion than when his sister had greeted him. He moved back after a few seconds to see that tears were gathering in his mother's eyes.

"Hey come on, don't you tear up on me too," he laughed as he wiped away one of her tears, and she just stifled a sob as she pulled him closer for another hug instead, and he returned the gesture. He was sure that he'd have bruised ribs by the end of it.

"Oh, I'm so glad to see my boy back home in one piece," she then added, pulling away again. "We were all glued to that damn television screen for so long, not knowing what had happened..."

"Don't worry mom, I'm here now, see?" he replied, with another smile, before it quickly faded as he asked another question. "How are the others doing...Ben's parents? I saw the tributes outside their house on my way here."

Marie was silent for a few moments before replying. "...they're doing as well as can be. The funeral is arranged for tomorrow morning. Looks as though the entire town will be coming. They've been so supportive to them."

"I expected no less," replied Dean, as he just only realised that Lisa had disappeared off somewhere. "Jesus, I just wish it could all have turned out differently"-

"Found him!" called Lisa's cheery voice and Dean turned in time to see her appear from out of the tree line, clutching a furry bundle in her arms. A few seconds later, and he realised that it was a puppy; a Siberian Husky breed to be exact, all grey and white fur, struggling in her arms, though her grasp remained gentle.

"So you found him then?" asked Marie.

"Yes," replied Lisa, before turning towards her brother. "This is Grey, Dean. We got him not too long ago...after Hooch sadly passed on."

"Oh God, Hooch," sighed Dean, remembering the Alsatian that had served as the family pet for most of his life on the farm. Looked as though the old hound had finally passed on; following a life of much love and affection from his owners. As if to reinforce that point, he finally noticed the old empty dog house beneath the apple tree, the word 'Hooch' written above the entrance in black paint. Dean fondly remembered how often he would chase that damn dog round the farm to try and get its favourite fetch ball back.

"Hey there Grey," said Dean as he moved a hand towards the animal's head, and it suddenly craned round to sniff at his fingers, before licking at them with its coarse tongue. He then began to stroke its fur, and he was glad to see that this animal wasn't trying to rip his throat out with its bare teeth, like the infected dogs he had encountered in Raccoon City.

"I think he likes you," laughed Lisa as the puppy began to whine as it craned its neck round further for more affection.

"Good to know," he said with a forced smile as he looked down into the canine's deep blue eyes, glad that he wouldn't have to contend with anymore monstrous creations of that damned virus. Not out here, in the middle of the Virginian countryside, far away from the big city.

"Why don't we all go inside?" suggested Marie suddenly, as Lisa set Grey down and the puppy immediately starting pawing at Dean's lower legs, and he looked down, smiling a little. "You must be exhausted from your trip."

"Yeah, I still am, kinda," he replied, starting to follow his mother up the porch steps, dog at his heels.

* * *

They were currently sat in the farmhouse's lounge, a rather cosy-looking area with the windows at the back, a green couch with faded patches set in front of them, along with a pair of chairs set on either side of the couch, a wooden coffee table before the seats, and then at the opposite side of the room was a modest TV set, positioned on a small wooden cabinet. Sitting on one of the chairs now, sipping a cup of strong coffee, he swore that this room, hell, the entire house, hadn't changed in 5 years.

"That sounds horrible Dean," said Marie, shaking her head as she held onto her own mug. Lisa sat next to her on the couch, tugging at a thick rope toy that Grey was pulling on at the opposite end. He showed no sign of giving in.

"It was," nodded Dean, as he told them of what had happened in Raccoon City, though leaving out certain...'details'. "The R.P.D didn't stand a chance, no matter how many of us were there." He lowered his head again, avoiding direct eye contact as he knew fine well that it was painful enough to hear the trials that he had gone through, he didn't want them to see how much it had affected him too. He didn't want them to see his bruised and battered body either- he hated to think they saw him as some fragile shell that would fall apart at any moment.

"What happened in the city Dean?" asked Lisa suddenly, content to let Grey win the tug-o-war and instead ravage his rope toy freely. "The military were saying on TV that it was a toxic waste spillage...but I think that it's obvious it was something else, wasn't it?"

"Well," he began; looking away again as he debated whether or not he should tell them, but he gathered there was no harm in it. They were his family, after all. "-it was an outbreak of this virus, which had been spreading through the area for months. It changed people it infected, turned them into zombies, and I know that sounds insane, I truly do, but that's the truth." He could feel their surprised glares as he finished his little story.

"Zombies?" asked Lisa quietly. "You mean like"-

"Yes, like in a Biohazard movie," interrupted Dean, nodding his head. "I know this isn't a movie...but that's what I saw. Hundreds, no, thousands of those things wandering the streets, moaning and groaning and feeding on the fallen"-

"Hey, don't worry son," said his mother as she put a hand on his arm. "I know it can be painful...so please, don't feel rushed to talk about it so soon. We'll all understand if you don't want to discuss it."

"Th-thanks mom," he replied with a slight smile, looking over at her kind expression. "I see you're still as kind as always...some things don't change at all."

"A lot hasn't changed," said Lisa with her own smile. At that, Dean sighed deeply, knowing that he had to address the inevitable issue of his return after five years of being absent sooner or later. But when he opened his mouth to say something, he heard the sound of feet on the porch steps, and the front door opened, cutting him off.

"Marie! I'm back!" called an aged male voice that made Dean sit up and take notice, even as Lisa rose to her feet and disappeared from view through the doorway, as he heard her greet the new arrival.

"Dad! Welcome home! We've got a visitor!"

"Oh really? And who would that be? Not the tax man I hope," chuckled the new voice, as Dean glanced over towards his mother.

"Mom...how is"-

"He'll be glad to see you Dean, just be grateful of that," she replied with a smile, just as the footsteps came towards the lounge, and Dean rose to his feet quickly. A moment later, the new arrival entered the room.

The man standing before him was the exact same height as Dean, and may have been the same person too, sporting many of the same facial features, green eyes, and the same general hairstyle; though this man was in his late fifties, his hair beginning to thin and show patches of silver in some places, his eyes having lost some of their youthful glint. He wore a black shirt which emphasised his muscular physique (even in his advanced years he remained as fit as an ox), along with dusty beige pants and brown work boots, similar to his wife's. He also bore a faded scar over his right eye and a pair of dog tags dangled from around his neck, both mementos of his time in the jungles of Vietnam.

"Son...?" asked Joseph Travers, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Hi dad," replied Dean with a light smile. "I'm back."

"W-when did you get back?" asked Joseph, clearly still a little surprised to see his son here in the flesh, as he took a step forward.

"About half an hour ago," replied Dean, as he saw his sister enter the room behind Joseph, standing at the side. "I was just catching up with mom and Lisa...just musing on how little's changed around here."

"Yes, Riverview's also been like that," replied Joseph, before adding, "of course, only people who live here can appreciate that." Dean turned away, unsure on how to take that remark. He sighed before speaking up again.

"Dad, I'm"-

"Oh just shut up and come give your silly old man a hug," said Joseph suddenly, before he moved forward, and for the third time in the last half an hour, Dean felt himself embraced by one of his close family, though this time a lot more forecfully. Though he stumbled back a little from the sudden gesture, he soon settled his own hands on his father's forearms.

"It's OK dad, I'm home now," he whispered, before casting a look at his sister, who only smiled back in response.

"Welcome home son," added Joseph as he finally moved away from Dean, smiling and patting a hand on Dean's shoulder, his face twisting into a smile, an expression mirrored by the rest of the Travers family. Finally they were whole again.

* * *

Sometime later, Dean settled into a position on the swinging porch chair out the front of the farm house, a glass of cola in one hand. The warm orange glow of the kitchen's light warmed the back of his neck, and he could still hear his family speaking between one another, though no matter how much he perked his ears up, he couldn't tell what they were saying, if they were talking about him or not. They had recently finished their dinner, where Dean had demolished a huge cob of corn that had been put on his plate, slathered in butter, and it tasted as sweet as all the crops on the Travers Estate would.

He had also showered and changed finally, though while he was changing he had to quickly close the door when Lisa wandered past the door- terrified that she would spy the countless bruises and cuts that marked his torso like a road map. He didn't want any of them, let alone the one who looked up to him so much, in such a condition.

He sighed and turned his head away, looking over the spacious front yard instead, seeing that the big red tractor was now parked up just inside the front doors of the barn, alongside a few bales of hay, wrapped up tightly. The large gates that constituted the end of the dirt path from the main road were also closed fully, showing that no other action would be taken today. Otherwise everything was much as it was when he first arrived, though he could hear the subdued sound of flies buzzing around the lone porch light that had been lit. He could feel his hand reaching instinctively towards his hip, but reminded himself that he didn't have his gun on him, and that an army of walking corpses wouldn't suddenly shamble out of the trees to attack them all.

He looked towards the horizon, and even in the relative darkness he could see that dark, thick clouds that gathered, full of rain most likely. A few seconds later he saw a brilliant flash of white course through the clouds, illuminating the horizon, followed by a deep rumble of thunder several seconds later. It almost seemed like a metaphor for the funeral tomorrow: would the sky, along with the rest of the town, cry tears of sorrow for the death of Ben Campbell?

He sighed and lowered his head again, finding his mind returning to that cramped chopper, holding onto Ben's hand for dear life as the life drained from his body, pooling at his feet. He couldn't do anything to help his friend, even after all they had been through in that damn city. But soon that sorrow turned to anger, and he clenched his fist, as he remembered who was ultimately to blame for all of those tragedies.

The destruction of Raccoon City.

The deaths of its population.

The use of a nuclear weapon to stop the spread of the virus.

And the death of Ben Campbell, his closest and oldest friend.

_Ben...those bastards will have to pay, one way or another!_

He heard a brief yap that almost made him jump, and he glanced down to see Grey, the husky pup, sat at his feet, looking up at him expectantly, wagging his tail furiously, tongue lolling freely. A few seconds later, he then hopped up onto the empty space beside Dean, moving to nuzzle at his fingers.

"Hey there boy," he laughed, stroking the pup's soft fur. "They too busy to notice you in there?" he then asked, as the dog rolled onto its back and exposed its belly, though Dean had to lift his fingers away when it tried biting at him.

A second later, the screen door opened, and Joseph Travers stepped out, stretching his arms before noticing Dean sat not too far away from him. "Oh hey there son, that other seat taken?" he then asked, moving round before he saw the tiny bundle of fur sprawled across the seat.

"Sorry, but it is kinda," chuckled Dean as the pup looked up at his father's stern face.

"Move!" the older man ordered, and the dog immediately scrambled onto its feet and dropped off the seat, disappearing inside the house. Joseph closed the screen door behind the animal as it went, and then the farmer slowly settled himself into the now empty space.

"Never thought I'd see the day that my own pet would try and wrangle me out of my favourite seat on the porch."

"Well you know what they say, you snooze, you lose, old man," replied Dean, smirking.

"Hey!" retorted Joseph, punching his son's knee lightly. "I might be old, but I'm not _that _old! I could still box your ears if I wanted to!"

"You haven't changed at all dad," laughed Dean suddenly, staring ahead. "Just like mom and Lisa...just like this town: it's as though the last five years never happened."

"Well then son, if things haven't changed, then who's the sheriff?" asked Joseph, intending to test his son's memory of his old home town.

"That's easy, Harper Collins of course," replied Dean. "Tall guy, has a well-trimmed beard, pretty fair lawman in all," he continued, gesturing with his hands, before turning to his dad and adding, "how is the old guy doing anyway?"

"Same as always," smiled Joseph. "He just got a couple of new deputies into the force, since they've been having troubles with illegal hunters and poachers out in the forests."

"I see...and is the old greasy spoon still owned by Gloria and Richard?" asked Dean next, referencing the couple who had been running that small diner on the southern edge of the town for some years when he had left, frequented by the biker gangs and other persons just passing through Riverview on their way out west, or towards the capital.

"Yes, they're still around too," laughed Joseph, before he suddenly became serious and turned towards his son. "You know, I just don't get it."

"What do you mean?"

"Well you still know this tiny place in and out, like the back of your hand," explained his father. "Even after spending two years out in some big fancy city out west." Dean lowered his gaze again.

"Dad, I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"Five years ago, when I left town," began Dean, wondering how to word his next statement. "I didn't come back for so long because I felt like I wouldn't be able to show my face around here again...after everything you said about disgracing the family name"-

"We all said things that we didn't mean," interrupted Joseph suddenly. "Hell, looking back, I can't believe how stubborn I was being about everything, about letting you take over the farm. I just remembered that I swore to your grandfather on his deathbed that you would take over the farm and keep it afloat. That was his main wish, son."

"Dad..."

Everyone knew that William Travers was perhaps the most respected resident in Riverview's history, the World War II veteran who had returned home and picked up the Travers estate which had fallen into decline since the time of his father, Dean's great-grandfather, Robert Travers. And within a few months he had turned it all around, and the farm's produce that was sold on the market provided a steady stream of income towards the town as a whole, and allowed it to develop at an accelerated rate. Since then, the Travers farm had been so important for Riverview's fortunes that it _had _to remain at full operating capacity, for the good of the town.

"Your grandfather was a good man, an honest man," continued Joseph Travers, a nostalgic look in his eyes. "When he passed on, I was determined to honour his wishes as best I could. And when you said you didn't want to take over the farm like I had"-

"Dad, I said that because I knew the world was a very big place," responded Dean. "And I didn't want to be stuck in the same small place for the rest of my life...I wanted to find my own way, you know? My own path in this life." He finished by looking off towards the distance, as thunder lit up the sky on the horizon. "That's why I moved out to New York...I wanted to find my own fortune."

"I know," agreed his father suddenly, also looking towards the distance. "You always did things your own way Dean, ever since you were a child. I've got no more beef towards you...none of us do. We just wanted our son back."

"Dad, I'm sorry"-

"Dean, forget all of that," said Joseph firmly, turning to look his son in the eye directly. "All we care now is that you're safe and well. That's all which matters now, right?" Dean looked at his father for a while before the words began to sink in, and he finally offered a nod in confirmation.

"Yeah...and besides, if you told me five years ago I'd have a career in law enforcement then I'd tell you that you were pulling my leg," stated Dean, letting out a brief chuckle shared by both father and son.

"How did you enjoy that, then?" asked Joseph.

"Well it was good for the most part, aside from the danger of the guy you were chasing pulling a gun or a knife on you," explained Dean. "The rush of it could be thrilling though, I'll admit that. But I just wish my law enforcement career had ended on a more...positive note..."

An awkward silence was left over for several seconds, until Joseph shifted in his seat and finally spoke up.

"Son, don't beat yourself up over what happened to Ben."

"Why not?" retorted his son, turning suddenly. "We were partners, we were meant to look out for another, and I screwed up big time! How the hell am I supposed to look his parents in the eye and tell them I'm sorry?"

"You'll have to face them at the funeral Dean," retorted Joseph calmly. "They've been distraught enough as it is, you can't just fob them off." Dean sighed in annoyance and turned his head away, trying to avoid the inevitable truth.

"But I can't..."

"You can, and you'll have to son," replied Joseph, his voice becoming firmer now. "And me and your mother, and your sister, will be there to support you every step of the way. You'll always have a home here Dean, whatever happens..."

"Dad..."

"You don't have to say anything else son," interrupted his father, rising to his feet and placing a hand on his shoulder. "We'll always love you Dean, and we'll help you get your life back together. Now it's getting late, and you should get some sleep: it'll be a busy day tomorrow." Dean tried to say something else, but it faltered in his throat. As Joseph turned to leave though-

"Dad? Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, what is it?" asked his father, sitting himself down again. Dean was silent for many more seconds before he finally replied.

"Did you ever enjoy...killing people in Vietnam?" Joseph looked at Dean for a few moments, and then turned away, his hand cradling the dog tags hanging from his neck, clearly reminded of his own personal horrors in those steamy jungles.

"Son, most of the time I killed someone it was because I had no choice," he explained quietly. "I went out there because I thought I was doing good for our country...but in the end, no I didn't enjoy it. Killing's a very dirty game, take my word for it. Why do you ask anyway?"

"Because I killed plenty of people in Raccoon City," replied Dean, staring into the distance. "Men, women, the young, the old; hell, even the odd child. But like I explained to you in there, they weren't themselves. They'd been turned into monsters...they lost control of themselves..."

"What was the alternative?" asked his father.

"Then they'd be stuck in that state for the rest of their lives. It didn't bear thinking about."

"Then you did the right thing, Dean." There was another bout of silence after that statement, until finally his father rose to his feet once again. "You should get come sleep son, it'll be a hard day tomorrow."

"Yeah...but maybe I'll stay up a little longer," answered Dean.

"OK then," said Joseph, before he turned and disappeared inside the house, closing the screen door carefully as he went, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts once more.

His dad was right. Dean would have to face the Campbell's sooner or later, and that probably meant a lot sooner at the funeral tomorrow. How could he even explain why their son was dead, and he was meant to watch out for him? The loss of a child was perhaps one of the worst tragedies that could befall anyone: something that Dean would not wish upon anyone. But to live through it was another thing...

But as his father had pointed out, he couldn't exactly avoid them forever. Thunder rumbled in the distance once more, and he rose to his feet finally, turning to head inside. Tomorrow would be a very long and sad day indeed.

* * *

By the time the gates of Riverview Cemetery had been opened the next morning, most of the town had already gathered, despite the fact that angry black clouds swelled up in the late morning sky, threatening to erupt into rainfall at any moment, and the mourners came prepared in waterproofs and umbrellas, two lines of black-clad figures following the wooden coffin, laden with countless floral tributes, up the slight slope towards where the open-air service would take place.

Dean and his family walked two rows behind the coffin, a huge bouquet of red roses clutched in his hands. He just stared ahead, at the mahogany coffin born by the pall bearers, feeling his sister's comforting touch again his arm, his parents on either side of them. In front he could see Ben's parents, Peter and Joanne, the latter wearing a black veil and clutching a white handkerchief, wiping away her tears every now and then. He listened to the pained sobs for several more seconds, before casting his gaze downwards, the guilt gnawing away at his stomach.

"It's OK," Lisa whispered in his ear. "We're here for you."

A short while later, they had all gathered in the cemetery grounds, some 10 lines of 20 seats each, enough for 200 people, though many more who had came stood instead. Dean could see Cameron and Travis, along with their families too, along with many other familiar faces from the town. In front of them, Father Patrick Rooney stood beside the gleaming wooden vessel, as the pall bearers stood by, ready to commit Ben to the ground. Though the Campbell's were never a very religious family, they had still allowed a brief ceremony to go ahead, as it was the least that they could allow.

"Dearly beloved and friends," proclaimed Father Rooney as he began his sermon. "We are gathered here today to commit our beloved son, Benjamin Campbell, to the earth." At that, Ben's mother erupted into another fit of pained sobs, her husband settling a hand on her shoulder. Dean, sat with his family several seats away, lowered his gaze once more, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

"But one should not wallow in our feelings of sorrow," continued the town priest. "Ben dedicated his life to enforcing peace in our world, and towards protecting those who required protection- even in the final moments of his life, he was dedicated towards defending that which was most precious to others"-

Dean stiffened up at that point, and Father Rooney's voice faded away as he rambled on about some religious metaphors or other, something that wasn't important. What had resonated most visibly for him was the part about Ben's dedication to protecting others in his role as a police officer...a role that he had upheld until the very end, saving Dean's life from that damn Tyrant in the underground facility. His friend had died with no regrets in life, just as the others had suggested. But still...a part of Dean, deep down, still burned with guilt. Would that guilt ever leave him?

"-and as we commit our beloved to the ground, let us not forget the joy and happiness that he bought to our lives, and do not allow your memories of him fade from your mind. And when he has joined our Lord in heaven, he will live forever in our hearts."

As Father Rooney finished his sermon, he turned to the pall bearers and nodded his head, prompting them to begin turning the heavy crank that would gradually lower Ben's coffin into the hole dug for it. Almost as soon as they had begun their work, the heavens opened and a deluge of rain fell, as though mirroring the tears of sorrow shed by the mourners present. A few seconds later, umbrellas were raised, though Dean continued to sit unshielded, even as the rain pounded down on his head and shoulders, soaking him through to the bone, as he just watched the pall bearers do their work, carefully removing the harness and crank mechanism, and then beginning to shovel the dirt onto the lowered coffin, a process that continued for another agonising 10 minutes.

Many of the mourners remained for the next hour or so, giving their condolences and offering their own floral tributes to Ben's parents, a long line of black-clad people lining up before the bereft parents. Dean was one of them, his eyes lowered as he drew closer and closer to them, listening to the condolences offered to them.

"Peter, Joanne...I'm so, so sorry."

"If there's anything you need, anything at all"-

But Dean had one major difference from all of these others- he had been _there _when Ben had received his fatal injuries, had been there when the life had faded from his body, after holding on through excruciating agony. What would he say to them? That their son was killed by some towering monster created by a renowned pharmaceutical company? No-one in their right mind would believe that.

_And yet I saw that...and all those other monsters. It's a wonder I'm not a gibbering wreck yet._

Soon enough, he was stood directly in front of them, feeling two pairs of eyes regarding him with conflicted emotions. He finally looked up, and he could sense Joanna Campbell's despairing eyes behind that veil which shadowed her eyes, and suddenly the bouquet in his hands felt useless, even as he spoke those words.

"I'm so sorry about Ben. He was...almost like a brother to me. I'm sure he wouldn't want you both to cry for him. He'd want you both to accept his actions and to move on."

Joanne offered a nod, even as she leaned up, carefully lifting her veil up to expose her cheeks stained with tears and ruined mascara, and putting a brief kiss on his cheek, mouthing the words 'God bless you', before taking the flowers and sitting down. He then turned to Peter, who just shook Dean's hand and nodded briefly, though his eyes showed some tinge of resentment towards him.

_This is your fault, _they seemed to say. _Our son is dead and it's all your fault. You were meant to look out for one another, and you let him die. You should be ashamed of yourself!_

Dean continued to stand for a moment, feeling that glare upon him, before he finally realised someone else was standing behind him, and he moved aside, allowing them to approach Peter and Joanne, and soon he found himself drifting back towards his family, settling into his seat, almost on autopilot as he settled back into his seat.

Sometime later, the cemetery had practically emptied, most of the mourners having departed to the memorial being held at the Campbell's residence. The only ones left behind were the somewhat lonely figures of Dean and Lisa Campbell, the former stood only a few feet from Ben Campbell's gravestone, staring towards the inscription etched upon the stone face.

_Benjamin Campbell_

_6__th__ April 1972 to 29__th__ September 1998_

_Always in our hearts._

"They hate me, you know," he announced suddenly.

"Who does?" asked his sister.

"Ben's parents," he answered. "I could see it in their eyes...they hold me accountable for what happened to him."

"Dean, you did all you could," replied Lisa, moving up to stand beside him.

"And it still wasn't enough!" he half-yelled, still looking at the headstone's inscription. "Goddamn it, I'm sorry Lisa...I know I shouldn't take it out on you. But I still can't feel as though this could've turned out differently. What if I'd been faster? What if I'd been more careful? What if"-"

"Don't beat yourself up with the how's and maybes," she replied. "Just learn to deal with the present." He didn't reply for a long time, and just as she was beginning to lose hope in him agreeing, he finally turned towards her and offered a nod.

"You're right," he said, before he suddenly let out a sneeze. Which was understandable, since he was soaked through to the bone anyway. Though the rain had mostly cleared, it still drizzled lightly.

"Dean we should head back, you're soaked through and through," suggested Lisa.

"No, you go ahead," he stated, waving his arm and turning back towards the gravestone. "I still have a few things to be said."

"OK then..." replied Lisa, uncertain, but soon she turned and made her way back down the gentle cemetery slope, casting one last glance towards the wet, shivering figure of her big brother.

Now that he was truly alone, Dean allowed himself to express his emotions fully, breaking down into flowing tears almost in an instant, dropping to his knees in front of the grave, his knees plunging into wet mud, though he gave it no concern.

"Oh God, Ben," he sobbed. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I thought we would be there with each other until the very end...thought we would retire and grow old together. Friends until the very end. But then...then those bastards had to destroy Raccoon City!"

He slammed his fist down into the earth, feeling his anger towards Umbrella boil to the surface once more. He breathed hard a few times, before wiping his face clear of tears and taking a deep breath before speaking again.

"But don't worry," he continued. "I'll look after everyone, I'll protect them. I'll protect them, just like you protected my life back in that facility. It's the very least I can do for you. I'll never let those memories of you fade."

And with that, he rose to his feet, looked at the engraved surface of the stone for some time, and then finally turned and headed down the slope, a lone black-clad figure alone in his despair.

**2 weeks later...**

The cemetery was abandoned, save for the line upon line of gravestones, marking over 500 lost loved ones, some ranging from over 100 years ago, the stones weathered and marked with spots of lichen and moss, the most recent stones only a couple of years old, their inscriptions still legible. The graves were divided in two by the lone road which ran through the centre of the grounds, and several trees also dotted the grassy landscape, many of them having lost most of their leaves, along with a number of wooden seating benches.

At a small plot on the east end, a young woman with curly blonde hair, wearing dark jeans and a black rain coat, stooped down before a trio of grave markers, laying a huge bundle of white roses. The oldest gravestone, to the left, showed the resting place of 'Adam Devlan', described as a 'loyal and loving father and husband'. Beside that grave, and the most recent marker, lay 'Margaret Devlan', described as 'devoted' and 'caring', the year of her death reading 1998.

And then the woman turned towards the final marker, which showed the resting place of 'Robert Devlan', the stone's elaborate inscription describing him as a 'protector of the weak and innocent', and 'a true patriot for his country'. The soil before the grave was laden with a folded-up stars and stripes, the mark of a fallen US soldier, the ultimate mark of respect that could be shown from the military...even to a disgraced soldier such as this one, the man who murdered his own sergeant in cold blood in the Gulf 7 years prior.

She wiped away a few trickling tears before she spoke, her voice a hoarse whisper. "I miss you all so much...but I know you're always with me too...right here, in my heart," she whispered, holding her hand across her heart. Though she was only in her early twenties, she had lost her entire family before she was 30...something that no-one should have had to go through. And yet this world could be very cruel.

That story from 2 weeks ago showed her that: a small town in the Midwest, wiped off the map by a nuclear weapon, supposedly to prevent the spread of some lethal pathogen that had infected the entire population. When she was young, she never believed tragedies such as that could never occur, but after the last few years she knew better.

Just as she rose to her feet, moving to leave, she paused after seeing something out the corner of her eye. She did a double-take, and thought she had seen the outline of a person standing beneath a nearby tree. But when she looked closer and the shadow moved, she knew she wasn't seeing things.

"Who's there?" she called out to the figure. "Are you following me or something?"

The figure seemed to hesitate for a moment, until a male voice called out, "are you Claudia Devlan?" She blinked in surprise.

"Yes, yes I am," she replied, somewhat shakily. "Who are you?" At the sound of her question, the figure finally stepped out into view, and she saw that it was a man some years older than her, about five foot ten inches, with dark brown hair and green eyes, freshly shaved and fairly handsome in appearance. He was wearing black pants and jacket, over a white shirt. He stopped several feet away from her, seemingly unsure on what to do next.

"You've got his face, you know that?" he said suddenly, causing her to furrow her brow in confusion.

"His face?" she asked quietly. "Who do you mean? Actually, who the hell are you? Just appearing out of nowhere?"

"My name is Dean Travers," the man replied, "and I'm very sorry for just appearing out of nowhere like this."

"OK then, Mr Travers," she continued, sounding a little more relaxed, even as he cast his gaze towards the grave markers behind her, "and why have you come here exactly?"

"Look," he began, "I know what I'm about to say next is going to sound impossible, but I just need you to believe me. I used to know your brother, Robert."

That statement was followed by a painful silence from the young woman, who felt a surge of powerful emotions and memories rise to the surface, most of them revolving around the smiling face of her elder brother. "You...knew Robbie? You were in his unit?" she then managed, shakily.

"His unit?" asked the man now known as Dean, sounding confused.

"He was in the Delta Force in the Gulf," she explained, "so you clearly weren't in his unit, otherwise you would know that. Were you in the same cell block as him? You sure don't look like a former military prisoner." By this stage the man was looking at her as though she had just grown a second head. Clearly he didn't know her brother if he was acting like this. She didn't have the patience to deal with a sick prankster like this, not today of all days.

She smiled a little, confidently. "I'm sorry, but you clearly didn't know Robert. If you did, then you would have known he spent the last six years of his life on death row for murdering his sergeant. Of course, no-one believed his story that he did it to stop him raping this innocent Iraqi girl...his regiment were too eager to nail him to the wall."

"He murdered his own sergeant?" whispered that man now known as Dean, lowering his head.

"Look," Claudia stated, sounding uncomfortable, "you clearly don't know my brother and you're a liar. Now you can clearly see on that gravestone that my brother died three years ago," she continued, pointing towards the end tombstone, her brother's name and the dates of his birth and death inscribed upon it.

As she began to choke back painful sobs, the man walked past her to examine the tombstone closely, stooping down on his knees and examining the folded-up flag and the bunch of roses for a few seconds, before sighing deeply and rising to his feet.

"Look, I don't know how to say this so I'm just going to come out and say it," he said carefully, holding his open palms out towards her. "Your brother was still alive until recently."

A dead silence befell the cemetery, broken only by the tweeting of nearby birds.

"What did you say?" she asked, her tears of sorrow becoming angry.

"Just let me explain"-

"Who the hell do you think you are?" she screamed suddenly, cutting him off. "You turn up here out of nowhere, say you knew my brother, and then you tell me he didn't die three years ago!"

"Please"-

"I watched my brother die before my very eyes!" she continued, shoving him forcefully in the chest, making him stumble back a few feet. His eyes showed genuine surprise. "I saw him tied to a post, and shot through the chest by six armed men because his regiment didn't have the balls to admit that he was a better damn soldier than their bastard of a sergeant! And then I had to watch my mother waste away"-

"I'm sorry"-

"Well don't!" she screamed again, tears of anger coursing down her cheeks. "Just go! Get the hell out of here before I call the police!"

"Look, I just need 10 minutes, no, 5 minutes of your time"-

"Go!" she screamed again, shoving him once more, but this time he suddenly took hold of her wrists in a careful but firm fashion, locking eyes with her, his expression somewhere between anger and annoyance.

"Just listen to me!" he urged, and her angry gaze melted away a little. He took a breath before continuing. "I'm sorry I just showed up out of nowhere, but if I didn't know your brother, then how did I get this?"

And with that, he retrieved something from one of his outside pockets, before dangling it in front of her face. It was a small metallic object, hanging from a steel chain. She looked at it for a few seconds, and then all of her anger melted away.

"How...?"

It was a simple dog tag, inscribed with the name 'R. Devlan', along with details of a date of birth and a blood type: all of them an exact match to that of her supposedly late brother. She carefully took the dog tag and stepped away from Dean, as he released his grip on her wrists slowly.

"Where did you get this?" she asked, sounding very distant.

"From your brother," he replied, taking a deep breath. "I know it's crazy, but your brother was one of a special military unit that had been deployed into Raccoon City..."

"Raccoon City?" she asked, the name jogging her memory. "You mean...that city in the Midwest that was destroyed?"

"The very same," he nodded grimly.

"And how did you meet-?"

"Because I was in Raccoon City too."

She became very silent, letting that information sink in for a while, before she turned away and walked a short distance away. This man was a survivor of the recently destroyed Raccoon City, and according to him her supposedly dead brother was one member of a military unit that had been deployed into the city. A rescue unit maybe? And if so, why did it have dead soldiers in it?

"Look," Dean said calmly, "it's a very long story. Why don't we take a seat and let me explain everything?"

* * *

And so they both took a seat on a nearby bench, and 5 minutes had turned to an hour as Dean had explained most of his story: how Raccoon City had been destroyed after an outbreak of a deadly virus developed in secret by pharmaceutical giant Umbrella Incorporate, turning the townsfolk into flesh-eating monsters, as well as creating other monsters known as 'B.O.W's'. It was shocking stuff, something straight out of a horror movie, but she could tell by the pained look in his eyes as he spoke that it wasn't some idle tale he had made up on the spot. He had suffered great pain recently.

"So where does my brother come into it?" she asked when he finally stopped for a break. He looked down for a few moments, before replying.

"You brother was a member of this secret paramilitary unit that I encountered in Raccoon," he explained, biting his lip, "called the Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Service. They were like a clean-up crew for Umbrella's 'accidents', and they were there to extract any civilian survivors on the surface...but they were sent into the meat grinder just to gather data on these monsters for their employers."

"But how did my supposedly dead brother come into it?" Claudia asked, now desperate to find out more about Robert Devlan's return from the great beyond.

"The unit was formed from disgraced former soldiers and war criminals," explained Dean, "in other words, people that wouldn't be missed." At that remark, she turned away and lowered her head sadly, running her thumb over the almost flimsy metal dog tag that she had been handed just previously.

"Maybe Umbrella faked his execution so it would be easier for them to integrate him into the U.B.C.S," theorized Dean. "I know that sounds like a horrible thing, but Umbrella aren't as benevolent as you might think." She didn't reply, just continued examining the dog tag, and then after a while she finally spoke up.

"I never got to know my father," she explained, starting to tear up once again. "He committed suicide when I was barely a year old- blew his brains out with a hunting shotgun. I was told that he was a veteran of Vietnam, and when he came home he couldn't adjust to the horrors he saw out there."

"I'm sorry," said Dean, respectively.

"After that, mom retreated into her own world, and Robbie was the one who took care of me, bought me up," she continued, running a finger over the tag once more. "And then he went off to war again, just like dad...and he came back in chains, just for standing up for his morals."

"I'm sorry, I really am," whispered Dean, looking towards the three grave markers for her family that were just in the near distance. "I know what's it like to lose someone close to you." He lowered his gaze slightly, and she saw the pained look in his green eyes as memories came back to him.

"When Robbie was sentenced to death, mom didn't even bat an eyelid," continued Claudia, knowing that she may as well finish the tale of her complex family history, considering how much she had told this stranger. "She didn't want to go through the pain of losing another of her family, but shortly afterwards you could see it in her eyes...she'd lost the will to live after losing her son, and I couldn't do anything about it..."

"Miss Devlan..."

"You know the last thing Robert told me?" she continued, ignoring him. "He told me not to worry about him anymore...and all this time he was still alive somewhere. Why? Why didn't he get back in touch with me?"

"He was meant to be a dead man," reasoned Dean. "Him and possibly others in that unit. It wasn't exactly as though he could call home and give you an update...that unit wasn't meant to exist in official circles."

"But why did he agree to join them in the first place?" she then asked in a hoarse voice. "He was resigned to his fate..."

"That I don't know," replied Dean, "but I do know that he was a good man, your brother. He had this look in his eye...that once he had his mind set on something he'd follow it through to the end. We were fighting impossible odds in that city, but he still didn't back down. He fought to the death to save us."

"Yes, that sounds like the Robbie I know," she whispered in response, before carefully dropping the tag's chain around her neck, letting it hang in the middle of her chest. "You don't mind, do you?" she then asked, giving him a cautious look.

"Course not," he smiled. "It's the last thing you've got of your brother, after all." She seemed satisfied with the answer, and nodded, as he continued talking. "It took me a while to find you as well though. I must've taken nearly twenty of those tags out of the city, and most of them had no families or other loved ones...except for Robert Devlan, of course."

"But how though?"

"I had a friend who works in the library," he explained, and she raised an eyebrow, though he seemed aware of how silly that sounded. "...and he's good at getting information when I need it. Trust me, he's a good friend."

"He sounds like one," replied Claudia. "You...said you lost someone close to you, in the city?" she then asked, curiously. "Who?" She saw the pained look in his eyes as he became silent for a while, bad memories rising back to the surface.

"My friend, Ben Campbell," he answered finally. "We were both in the Raccoon Police Department...and he sacrificed himself to save my life. Just as any good police officer would have. And even after having three ribs broken he held on long enough so he could see the sun one last time...a true hero to the end."

"I'm sorry," she offered, her turn to apologise to a stranger.

"Don't be, it wasn't your fault," he replied, lowering his head. They continued to sit in silence for a few more moments, until he finally spoke up. "It's so peaceful here," he commented, looking around at the abandoned cemetery.

"Yes it is," replied Claudia, looking about with a smile on her face. There was another period of silence, and then Dean rose to his feet.

"I should go," he announced suddenly, and she looked up at him, concerned. "I'm sorry I had to drop in on you at a place like this, but I've done what I came to do, and its time I went." As he started to leave though, he felt a hand take hold of his jacket sleeve.

"Wait," said Claudia, before standing up herself. "Thank you for coming all this way, Mr Travers"-

"Please, call me Dean," he interrupted.

"Thank you for coming to find me Dean," she continued. "Part of me always felt as though Robert was with me always, watching over me...but I didn't realise that he was watching over someone for real...funny how this world works, isn't it?"

"You can say that again," replied Dean, with a lopsided smile.

"So thank you for putting my mind at rest," she continued, putting a comforting hand on his lower arm. "And I hope that someday you can find a way to move on with your life, to accept your loss."

"Yeah...I hope someday I can," whispered Dean. "But if you can move on after all you've lost, then I can do the same." And with that, she suddenly moved round to embrace him, and he stood there for a few seconds, somewhat awkwardly and caught off guard, before returning the gesture. She then moved away, before pressing a small card into his hand.

He examined it briefly, seeing 'Claudia Devlan, Attorney at Law', written across it, along with a phone number. "You're an attorney?" he asked in surprise. "I suppose everyone's full of surprises."

"Only a junior, even if I passed through law school with flying colours," she explained. "Even my tutor was amazed with how well I did. I gave you that because it would mean a lot to me if we kept in touch in the future."

"Really?" he asked, but when he saw the sincere look in her eyes he knew that she was serious about this, even if barely an hour ago he had been a complete stranger to her- albeit a complete stranger who had bought something belonging to her beloved, supposedly dead brother, so he could understand her reasoning behind the gesture.

"OK," he said, putting the card away. "I'll make an effort. Right now, I need to head back home...there's still a lot I need to do."

"OK, well I won't keep you," she smiled. "Take care, Dean."

"You too, Claudia," replied Dean, offering a quick nod, before he slowly turned and walked away across the grass, heading towards the main gates, only looking back once, just before he stepped onto the cemetery road, and then vanished from sight.

She watched him leave, and then turned back towards the small plot reserved for the Devlan family, before approaching it slowly, and kneeling before Robert's gravestone, feeling her sorrow rising back to the surface. She touched a hand to the coarse stone.

"Robert...I always knew it in my heart," she whispered, close to tears once more. "You always protected me and mom, and you protected others even when we thought you were gone. I was blessed to have a brother like you..."

And then she began to sob once more, as the powerful emotions overtook her again.

Settling into his rental car, Dean Travers sighed deeply and rubbed his face, casting a look back towards the cemetery gates, just behind where he had parked at the side of the road. He wondered if he should have stayed longer with Claudia, as she was clearly emotional when he had bought up the matter of her brother, but then he remembered that if he didn't leave soon, he wouldn't get home until tomorrow morning, and he promised his family he would only be gone for the day.

He sighed again and turned on the radio, flicking on the news station that he had been listening to before, mainly because the same thing had dominated the news headlines for the past two weeks.

"_...two weeks have passed since the destruction of Raccoon City, and still there has been no official word on the exact reason for the decision to destroy the city. No comment has come from the White House, following the appointment of Vice President __Woodward as the new President."_

"_But an anonymous source that broadcasted from inside Raccoon City moments before its destruction has suggested that pharmaceutical giant, which had many of its North American activities based in the city, were conducting secret viral experiments, the leak of which caused the Raccoon incident to unfold."_

"_In related circumstances, one Gordon Fletcher, Lieutenant with the 9__th__ Regiment of the Raccoon County Garrison, one of the regiments charged with the clean-up and relief efforts at the Raccoon City site, has made public details of similar experiments that he claims acquired from a survivor of the disaster. Contained with the data he has given to one of the country's main media stations are years worth of photos, videos, and written documents detailing countless experiments that have been going on for many years. Lieutenant Fletcher had this comment."_

The signal crackled a little, and then a familiar voice came through, over a background curtain of shouts and flashbulbs going off.

"_This data that was recovered from Raccoon City proves that the city's destruction was a terrible tragedy that could have been averted, were it not for the machinations of Umbrella Incorporates unethical and immoral experiments, many of them which involved the use of human subjects__. They are the ones responsible for this disaster, and I will endeavour to ensure they are made to pay for their crimes. That is all, thank you."_

"_Umbrella have declined to comment"-_

Dean flicked the radio off. _Bastards, _he thought bitterly._ It's only a matter of time before everyone knows what you've done. _

He continued to stare at the dashboard for a while longer, knowing that Umbrella would pay for the destruction of Raccoon City sooner or later. With both Fletcher and that other source having leaked all of that data to the outside world, it had to be inevitable. They couldn't cover all of that up and pretend it never happened.

But he also had his own situation to worry about. He was back home, already beginning to rebuild his life, moving back into his old room as though he had never moved out in the first place, starting to help out around the farm as and when required of him, while he planned where he would go next, what he would do. It wouldn't be an easy task, but he had his family around him, and he had the support of Cameron and Travis too, and their families, and that of many of the townsfolk. He turned the key in the ignition and started the car up, guiding it onto the road after a quick glance over his shoulder, heading back home once again.

But Dean Travers had no idea of what the future had in store for him, even as he could see the darkened rain clouds gathering on the horizon.

**THE END**

**A/N: **And alas, all good things must come to an end. In honesty, I can't believe I published the first chapter of this story back in February of 2007. That means over three years spent on this fic, and personally this is the one piece of work I am most proud of. I had about a third of this chapter written up for over a year and a half before now, and added on the part where Dean visits Claudia Devlan in the cemetery, considering that the entire of Chapter 24 is dedicated to her brother, it seemed reasonable enough to close that story thread, if you could call it that.

As for you people, this is your last chance to R+R. Please do so, and if you have the time, then let me know what parts of the story you think I did well on, which parts you think I could improve on, and so forth. I really would like to improve as a writer on this site, and your feedback, positive or otherwise, would be a big help in that regard.

And so what of the future? Well, I will confirm one detail with you all.

Dean Travers will return...

That's correct, I already have plans for a sequel. With the working title of 'Resident Evil: Dead Memories', the new story will be set three years after the Raccoon City outbreak, and will primarily concern Dean's efforts to move on with his life after surviving that horrendous incident. It will hopefully be shorter than TFOR, and also be more focused on drama, character personalities, and emotions; something which I feel needs to be improved. The sequel is also slated to feature appearances from some familiar faces in the Resi Evil canon, though details will remain top secret and locked behind 10 levels of security clearance.

As for other projects, I am still currently working on 'Tales from the Necropolis', a parallel story of sorts to this one, focusing more on other characters mentioned in TFOR, and giving a number of different viewpoints of the destruction of Raccoon City. As I have finished up on TFOR, I should have more time to work on 'Tales', and get that done in good time. Also, I may work on the odd one-shot, or even projects based on other game series, but for anything regarding that, then you can check for the info on my profile page, as I update every now and then.

Otherwise, I've explained all I wanted to discuss with you guys. I just want to extend a big thank you to everyone who reviewed or ever just read this story, including Metal Harbinger (check out his Darkness Arises/Darkness Arises: Reborn stories if you haven't yet), Peanuckle, Misery's Troll, Ryusei Date, xRaineNothingx, NinjaAlucard, Cargo BOB, Kurotsuki-Tenchi, Devil Without a Cause, and many many more. I love every one of you guys! *wipes away a tear* What's that? I'm not crying, I just got dust in my eye.

Anyway, I've rambled on long enough. Thanks again to anyone who reviewed or read this story, and I hope that you will continue to enjoy my future work on this site. Until the next time,

Jammer69er


End file.
